Ritual Behaviors
by LadyTuesday
Summary: Part Two of the Baker Street Boys series - wherein John realizes he's in love with Sherlock, a trip to the A&E makes everything clear to John, the boys both manage to become accidental Peeping Toms, Rosie knows what's up, and an overnight at a B&B pushes everything to the forefront. Direct prequel to From the Mouths of Babes.
1. The Evening Ritual

A/N - So I started The Baker Street Boys as a series intending each one to be a short-ish (5-10k word) one shot giving little "flashes" of life at 221B in the aftermath of series four, not _exactly_ as a Fix-It but more to fill in all the gaps Moftiss left in the storytelling of TFP and the montage at the end. Then Home Again, Home Again ended in a very different placfe than I expected and I realized I would have to do a LOT of work to get the boys from where they were at the end of HAHA to get where they NEEDED TO BE to make From the Mouths of Babes (which was written first) make sense.

So I knew this one would be important. When I sat down to write it, I intended the intro to be a chapter or two in Sherlock's POV and then I would segue into the events I had planned ... except Sherlock kept talking. And talking. And talking. And I ended up with about 10,000 words that I hadn't planned but were far and away better than what I had intended. As a result, this fic is not the zippy one-shot I expected it to be, but in fact, a three-chapter 43,000-word BEAST. But guys, I am SO PROUD of it. Maybe the best writing I've ever done. So ... settle in because a LOT happens in this fic. Each chapter will be approx. 15,000 words and I'll post on Sundays for the next three weeks.

On a related note - if you haven't read Home Again Home Again, you really SHOULD. I mean, strictly speaking, you don't HAVE to, but it sets up everything in this fic, so you might lose some references and character development which will lead into From the Mouths of Babes, which happens directly after this one. So yeah. You really should read Home Again, Home Again first if you haven't already (pretty please read my other works?!)

Lastly - please given an ENORMOUS round of applause to my new beta, the spectacular bigblueboxat221b. She has been the master Fixer of Mistakes, Catcher of Typos, Sounding Board and Epic Cheerleader. She is also an insanely talented writer, so don't hesitate to read her stuff.

Okay, that's enough for now.  
Enjoy!

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

* * *

 **Chapter One – The Evening Ritual**

The months at Baker Street that follow John's return prove to be a profound mix of elation and bafflement for Sherlock. Having John back in his rightful place is a joy so acute that a telltale tightness pinches behind his sternum every time Sherlock allows himself to stop and give it active thought. They are orbiting each other as they once were and it feels as if no time has passed. He refuses to stop and consider this too often, not only because it makes him unforgivably maudlin but because he knows that even John could recognize the symptoms of peculiar affection if given enough opportunities to see it. The last thing the detective wants to do now that he's just gotten John back is unsettle him enough to give an excuse to "get on his feet" with his own flat. Especially given that this would also remove the littlest Watson from Sherlock's immediate sphere as well.

When he first extended the invitation for John to move back in Sherlock had imagined that the experience of having a small, developing human in his home on a constant basis would be tolerable at the best of times and frustrating at the worst. It is a frustration he'd happily accept on John's account, but a frustration all the same. After all, small children are a never-ending cycle of messy foods, squashy or noisy toys that litter the floor, drooling mouths, grabbing hands that can upset chemicals and experiments, and near-constant need for diligent attention. Instead of inconvenienced, Sherlock finds himself nothing less than intrigued and enchanted by the girl. His tiny god-daughter is a marvel: at times, watching her progress feels like witnessing a self-sustaining experiment conduct itself in front of his eyes; at others, he staggers at the simplicity of her sheer joy and uncomplicated affection. Even when she is inconsolable for no discernable reason, Sherlock feels pulled to her in a way that he has only ever experienced once before (with her father).

To Sherlock's very great surprise, Rosie adores him. Lulled by the rumble of his deep voice when unsettled, fascinated by his typical whirlwind of motion when Sherlock is energized, soothed by the plaintive strains of his violin … Rosie seems endlessly captivated no matter what Sherlock does with her. He'd be loath to admit it in front of anyone save for John, but the ability to indulge in childlike play and silliness makes Sherlock feel light in a way that he's never felt before, even when he was a child. Not since before Redbeard. ( _Victor_ , he reminds himself. _Not Redbeard._ ) One day, they are pirates; the next, space explorers; the day after, medieval ruler and loyal subject; Rosie is always delighted. Young children, he discovers, are uncomplicated this way: so long as Rosie is warm and fed and clean and entertained, she doesn't care that others find him to be abrasive, arrogant, and utterly devoid of tact; he listens when she babbles, attends to her needs, speaks to her as he would any person and not as a gibbering idiot, and she delights in his attention. In fact, Rosie seems particularly fond of his stories about bees and pirates (which shows her impeccable taste) and his lessons on basic anatomy (which shows her relation to her father, obviously). John, in all his sentimental foolishness, declares Rosie to be "just another in the never-ending queue of female hearts trod beneath your feet." Sherlock scoffs, ignoring John's warm grin as he regales his god-daughter with a particularly adventurous tale about Grace O'Malley, assuring the riveted girl that she too could raise an army and scourge the seas someday (though not, sadly, become Irish).

The fond smiles from John have become increasingly frequent in the five months since John and Rosie have made Baker Street their home, and particularly since the events of the anniversary of Mary's death … which is what has Sherlock baffled. With the obvious exception of the presence of a toddler and subsequent need for a babysitter, not much changes in regards to the way John and Sherlock relate to each other in the months following the anniversary of Mary's death. At least, nothing _obvious_ , but it seems that there are subtle differences in John's interactions with Sherlock on nearly every level. They always make so little sense, though, and don't seem to be indicative of any clear motivating force on John's part. When John makes tea now, he makes Sherlock's first and blows on it a few times before handing over the mug but still drinks his own without waiting and scalds his tongue. He leaves Rosie with Sherlock for much longer periods of time while he's at the clinic where he used to ask someone else to help mind her for shifts longer than three hours. More than once, Sherlock finishes a piece on his violin to find John watching him with a gaze that is both intense and strangely tender. In general, John watches Sherlock far more often, usually when he believes Sherlock won't notice and looking away the instant he is caught; regardless of that fact, however, their direct eye contact has increased in frequency (up 32% from before he moved back in) and in sustained duration (increased from an average of 3.4 seconds per gaze to 6.3 seconds).

These would all seem to be indicators of something _positive_ – though what it indicates, he has no idea, given how unconnected the markers are – and yet, there are several other factors that seem equally undesirable and worryingly non-specific. Despite never batting an eye at it for the entirety of their previous tenure as flatmates, John startles and averts his eyes when Sherlock walks about in his dressing gown after a bath. He's surly for days after The Woman texts Sherlock about a blog post on a recent case. John practically yells the flat ceiling down while stitching up a gash in Sherlock's side after a confrontation with a suspect then berates himself in an apology not an hour later. And then once, during a particularly athletic chase through Islington after a drug trafficker, Sherlock herds John into the darkened corner of an alley lest they be caught by the thugs in hot pursuit of them and the evidence they pinched. Spying an alcove that is protected and defensible but gives a sightline to the outer alley, Sherlock corrals John into the corner with his body, keeping his ears trained to the outer alley for signs of their pursuers. In the tense minutes that follow, he feels John's breaths puff against his chest in increasingly erratic patterns as they wait until Sherlock is confident that they managed to shake off their shadows and can proceed safely back to the Yard. John remains stiff and uncommunicative for at least an hour afterwards at the Yard – to the point where even Donovan notices and comments on it – and then when they return to Baker Street, he barely speaks three words to Sherlock before pleading fatigue and heading upstairs. Except that Sherlock can hear John's restless pacing the perimeter of his room for nearly half an hour. Sherlock frowns and gazes up the stairs for several minutes, pondering the matter; eventually he admits defeat and gives it up as a bad job, heading back to his laptop in the sitting room.

The experiment data from earlier in the day can't keep his attention, though. As a matter of fact, he can't help but sift through the change in John's behavior over and over in his head; try as he may, he can't make it coalesce into any coherent pattern or conclusion. The only idea he keeps coming back to, unfortunately, are the words from Mary's last message: " _Because here's the thing, Sherlock: he's in love with you, too … He doesn't know what it really is **yet** , but he will." _Sherlock doesn't want to admit to himself how much he aches to believe it, that perhaps these odd fluctuations in John's behavior are indicative of John realizing—but no. It simply _cannot_ be that. John cares for him very deeply – of this, Sherlock remains absolutely certain – but if John actually felt _that_ , surely he wouldn't be exhibiting so many behaviors that push Sherlock away? John is many things, but never a _coward_. And yet, with all of the years of denying the unusual strength of their connection, perhaps—no, surely Sherlock is just seeing what he _wants_ to see—but then again—

Sherlock lets loose a great howl of annoyance. This circular thought is getting him _nowhere_ , and worse yet, he has absolutely no concrete evidence to support either train of thought. He strides across the room and picks up his violin, hacking away at the strings atonally for a few moments before deciding on a piece. Something energetic and violent, he thinks, to give vent to his anxiety and agitation.

He starts with Ysayë's Sonata Number 2 – fitting, given that the prelude's subtitle is "Obsession" – though ironically, it doesn't hold his attention; he blends into the Barber 3rd movement, but with his loss of focus, it's too much, his fingers tangling on the strings. Growling in frustration yet again, he starts up the Corigliano _Red Violin Concerto_ and it's perfect: angry, abrupt sawing at the strings that lets him pick away at the festering wound that is his mood. Somewhere floating above his concentration on the piece, Sherlock hears the pacing above him stop. He picks up the tempo and the volume, his fingers racing his bow across the neck of his violin; the metal bites into his callused fingers, his chin slips from the rest and the instrument sways but he thrusts it back against his throat and continues to heave with the motion of it as he forces the notes out. He's only a third of the way through the concerto, scowling out the window and his feet scraping against the carpet as he rolls and pitches with the force of the music, when he hears a telltale creak of floor boards behind him. The music trends upward, quieter and quieter strokes into the highest pitches he can wring from the neck of the violin, when John speaks.

"You sound upset."

Sherlock lets the high, trilling note linger, his bow still moving in continuous strokes as he turns to regard John. He knows what he must look like to the doctor: flushed about the cheeks, sweating lightly, scowling to high heaven; and yet, John just quirks a small smile at him.

"Your violin sounds upset, anyway," he quips.

When Sherlock's expression doesn't change, a look of tentative unease flashes across John's face. He seems … nervous. Odd. Sherlock lets the bow drop and then quenches the vibration of the strings with his fingers. The room is plunged into sudden silence but for the noise of London outside.

"Play the gypsy one?" John asks, hesitant.

He feels his forehead pinch as he scans his Mind Palace quickly for which of the dozens of pieces he's played that have a Romany bent to them that John would consider "the gypsy one" and lands on a piece he'd played last Midsummer that the doctor had taken a fancy to even though he'd only heard it the once.

"Csárdás?" Sherlock asks, although he's fairly damn certain it's the one. "The Monti Csárdás?"

John chuckles and the sound releases some of the tension in the detective's chest. John shuffles over to his chair and plonks himself down, crossing his socked feet in that odd, bent-inwards way he does when he's content.

"Damned if I can keep the names straight," John chortles. "I just know it started out sounding like a sad gypsy and then got quite bouncy."

Sherlock nods. "Definitely the Csárdás then. If … that's what you'd like to hear."

John nods wordlessly in return so Sherlock picks up his bow. For the first few long strokes across the strings, Sherlock watches John's eyes, letting the swirling depths of ocean-blue set the pace of his pulls on his violin. The unwavering strength of John's gaze burns at something in his stomach so when the tempo picks up, Sherlock turns away, letting the jaunty rhythm of the piece move his limbs into a lilting dance of instrument and musician and melody. He coaxes the bouncing cascade of notes out and lets the short, sharp strokes of his bow occupy his thoughts throughout the entire up-tempo section. He never turns to face John again, even when the middle section drifts up into a legato melody almost like a lullaby, but he can feel the doctor's gaze on him the entire time, intense and focused and warm. As the music picks up again, Sherlock finds himself irresistibly pulled by the liveliness of the tune and gives in to the impulse to dance across the sitting room. Undoubtedly somewhat ridiculous in his motion, Sherlock hears John laugh but the sound caresses rather than jolts. It's not a laugh of derision; his doctor laughs in delight and the sound sparkles within his veins. Sherlock finishes the final notes with a flourish and whirls to face John, his chest heaving with the effort, his cheeks flushed, his mouth turned up, and his pulse a bit erratic from giddiness.

John beams at him and actually applauds. "Absolutely brilliant. Loved that one the first time I heard you play it. Tried to look it up on YouTube a time or two, but even when I thought I'd found the right one, I could never find anyone that played it as well as you do."

Blood rushes to Sherlock's cheeks so quickly he swears he can _hear_ the blush occur. "Really?"

"Mmmm," John hums in agreement. "I suppose some of it is that it's never quite the same as having your own live concert," Sherlock smirks, "but, I dunno, you in particular … when you play that one you just…."

John trails into silence, gazing up at Sherlock in the golden beam from the street lamp outside (when did it get dark enough for a street lamp?). Sherlock feels himself wavering forward onto the balls of his feet, leaning towards the end of John's sentence.

He can't help it, he prompts, "Just …?"

John hands fist in his lap but he doesn't look away. "You just …" His voice drops to a half-whisper. "Transform."

John says it with such a tone of awe that the weight of it squeezes the breath from Sherlock's lungs.

"As if you become a gypsy right in front of my eyes. You've always been high energy but when you play, you just … come alive in such a different way. You're beautiful," John finishes in a hush.

Sherlock's stomach drops away and he stares at John. The doctor stiffens suddenly, as if he's only just realized what he's said, and although his facial expression doesn't change, his voice sounds controlled.

"The song, I mean," John says carefully. "Your music. It's beautiful."

Throat feeling raw, Sherlock nods and turns away. "Thank you, John. I … I'm glad you enjoy it."

"I do." John sounds sincere, but that tender, green tone of … something is gone from his voice.

Sherlock gently lays the bow across the stand and packs his violin away in the case left open on the desk. John rises from his chair and shuffles about behind him – looking for some reason to stay in the room? – but Sherlock doesn't turn. Eventually, John sighs and heads towards the stairs. The doctor pauses at the doorframe.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

The tone trends up at the end a minute amount, a question without being a question; John is asking Sherlock to give him a reason to stay. Sherlock remembers the expression of veiled panic on John's face when he called Sherlock 'beautiful'.

"Goodnight, John," he says heavily.

John wakes up the morning of Mary's anniversary feeling far more rested than he expects, considering the previous night's interlude. In fact, he wakes up feeling far more rested than he has since he lost Mary, swaddled beneath warm covers and unaccountably cozy. The awareness of an extra set of breathing noises washes into the back of his mind like low tide and he counts them: his own breaths; Rosie's; Sherlock's. _Sherlock's_. Even and slow inhalations with a little rasp at the end which is _almost_ a snore but not quite followed an abrupt _whoosh_ of air from his mouth when he exhales. A tiny smirk pulls at the edge of John's lips as he thinks of the innkeeper back when they went out to Dartmoor: apparently, his _is_ a snorer.

Well, not _his,_ obviously, but—

John nips that thought in the bud with the simple expedient of rolling over carefully to observe his sleeping friend. Sherlock lies on his left side facing John and seems to have banished himself as far to the opposite side of the bed as possible without risking his limbs dangling off the bed. Perhaps it's a product of his confession that he's never slept in bed with another person, thinking he's got to be careful about space? John's been in Sherlock's room while the man was sleeping on a number of occasions and every time, the detective sprawled out in a bent starfish of gangly limbs across every available surface (something that amused John to no end, considering that when sitting, he tended to ball up as tightly as his long arms and legs would allow). Maybe he was trying to be considerate of John's comfort. That seems unlikely, though, given the man's typical lack of regard for personal space. What if he was actually _uncomfortable_ sharing a bed with John and resisting his natural inclination for John's benefit? A light snuffling noise comes from Sherlock as he nuzzles his face against the pillow and a movement below the covers catches John's eye: Sherlock has hedged the majority of his body to the edge of the mattress but his left arm, which should have been tucked under his body, extended straight out across the empty space stretching between them with his fingers bowed outwards towards John. Lifting the covers as slowly and gingerly as he is able, John notes that Sherlock's hand is tilted in such a way that, before John had rolled over, the backs of Sherlock's knuckles would have been pressed right up against John's shoulder blades …. A coincidence? Or had Sherlock consciously (unconsciously?) reached out to connect to John?

Possessed of an odd mood in the moment, John performs a tiny experiment: he slides his hand slowly towards Sherlock's, extends a finger, and traces the deep lines etched across the center of the long, warm palm face up on the mattress between them. Sherlock gives a sudden deep inhale, his fingers extending out like the petals of a flower seeking sun but then closing over John's, trapping the tip of his pointer finger in a loose grip. John studies Sherlock's face carefully but the detective's features remain relaxed in sleep, so John opens his hand and brushes the rest of his fingertips across the backs of Sherlock's fingers. The fine-boned hand opens and Sherlock's fingers swirl over his, gently caressing as they move back and forth, around and between John's own; a small smile appears on the bowed lips and they puff out a bit with an exhaled breath as Sherlock snuggles deeper into the pillow. John's chest feels too tight.

John's not exactly brusque when he pulls his hand away but he doesn't go out of his way to avoid waking Sherlock as he sits up in bed and rests his back against the headboard. The detective responds immediately, his arm slithering back beneath his body as his limbs flex and stretch, and his eyes flicker open and unerringly glance up to catch John's gaze. For the span of a breath, Sherlock's expression is devastating, languid and soft and (oh God) sensual as he regards John above him in bed, but in a moment, the quicksilver eyes narrow just a bit (probably immediately cataloguing the difference in the light or something) and then his face reflects something John is more used to seeing, an expression that is content but somehow … careful.

"Good morning, John," he says in his deep rumble that is a bit rough from sleep. He's graceful even now, with pillow creases on his cheek and a riot of bed hair, as he levers himself up to mirror John's posture against the headboard.

"Morning," John echoes, his voice as even as he can manage. "Sleep okay?"

Sherlock's lips quirk up in a rueful grin. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

John's throat hitches but he nods. "Actually, I slept just fine." The silence sits heavy for a second. "Thanks for staying. It helped."

"Of course," the detective responds swiftly.

A gurgle of noise from Rosie's cot saves them from drumming up future conversation, tufts of towheaded curls popping over the edge as Rosie pushes herself up on wobbly legs and reaches out to them. Sherlock starts towards her – he's on the side of the bed that's closest to her, after all – but then the seawater eyes flick back to John's and he composes himself again, watching the doctor's face carefully. John makes a show of yawning and stretching, arms lifted up over his head, and throws Sherlock a guilty smile.

"Would you mind getting her nappy and outfit changed and taking her downstairs for breakfast?" he says as casually as he can. "I would love to start one day with a nice, long shower before I'm covered in baby food, wee, or diaper cream and cursing you for using all the hot water."

"Hardly my fault that you can't be bothered to get up earlier than I do."

John scowls, but it's mostly for show. "That is practically impossible. Most days, you never go to sleep!"

The detective's forehead wrinkles and he gives John a withering stare. "I sleep nearly every night since you came back with Rosie."

Astonished, John scans back through his memory and realizes that it's true; in the last several months, he can only remember a handful of instances where it was clear that Sherlock had not been to sleep when John rose with his daughter. He's stunned to realize that this is just another instance in the growing list of ways that Sherlock seems to have rearranged his entire livelihood for John (and now Rosie). Another thing for which John may never be able to repay him.

"Would hardly be good for a growing child if I was clambering around just under her bedroom all hours of the night," Sherlock says as if he's a completely reasonable person who has always had sensible personal habits. "Toddlers thrive on routine, you know, John."

John scoffs. Loudly. "Ta, I did know that. In addition to being the father of a toddler, I am a doctor, after all."

"One who can't be bothered to roust himself out of bed a half hour early for hotter bath water."

John puts up two fingers at him, trying to cover his lingering surprise at Sherlock's blithe declaration. Sherlock gives him a thoroughly unrepentant grin as he bounds out of bed and scoops Rosie up. The girl dissolves into hysterical giggles when Sherlock tosses her in the air, flapping her chubby arms and crying, "Again! Again!".

"Come along, Watson," he says, using his stupidly expensive dressing gown to mop up the dribble from the side of her mouth before throwing it over his shoulder. "You and I will go visit Mrs. Hudson once we've cleaned you up so your father can idle about in his dressing gown."

"Ironic, coming from you," John rejoins but he returns Sherlock's grin as the other man pads out on bare feet, Rosie babbling in his arms.

The first day or two after the anniversary, they seem to be very … cautious with each other. Sherlock agrees to nearly everything John asks far too quickly, picks up after himself without being nagged, conspicuously keeps Rosie busy so John has more leisure time. John chats too often, makes all Sherlock's favorite meals to entice him to eat, swallows his annoyance on a few usual stressors that he would normally have read Sherlock the riot act over on a typical day. It fades eventually, of course, and they settle back into a normal routine. As normal as Baker Street ever gets, anyhow.

In the next few weeks, though, John notices a subtle but definitive shift in the _way_ Baker Street works. Sherlock becomes a much more regular, even enthusiastic, minder for Rosie, seeming to be genuinely delighted in coaching her through various cognitive and physical milestones – although he is _violently_ opposed to the milestones associated with teething; little wonder – and regales John with stories of their activities during each day that he spends at the clinic, away from Baker Street. Only a few days a week, but John still aches for the things he's missing that Sherlock gets to see with Rosie. That being said, he's certainly glad that the person who is seeing them is someone who loves her; John knows that in no uncertain terms. In the months John and Rosie have lived at Baker Street, Sherlock staunchly refuses to take any case, be it from Lestrade or his email, which ranks over a five. John only presses him on it once, being flabbergasted into silence when Sherlock explains.

"Anything above a five is far too dangerous, John," he says. "Too much chance that one of us would get hurt or made into a target."

"This from the man who had the both of us literally leaping across building rooftops and chasing a serial killer the day after I met him."

"That man didn't have a best friend with a small daughter who depends on the two of us for her livelihood," the detective responds quietly.

"You could go without me," John suggests.

Sherlock shakes his head before John even finishes speaking. "Never again, John. Not if I can help it, of course. I'm no good without you. My conductor of light, remember?"

John just nods. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised at Sherlock's consideration for him and for Rosie at this point … and he isn't, exactly, but the fact that Sherlock is so free with _showing_ his consideration these days…. The man who called himself a sociopath for so long has begun to show his heart without reservation and John doesn't quite know how to accept that. Accept that he is the _recipient_ of that great heart so much of the time. It makes John feel as if something is shaking loose in his chest and he is just as unsettled by it as he is warmed.

At first, John believes that Sherlock has been the only one shifting and changing in this new iteration of Baker Street. More stable, less manic, more … content, Sherlock blossoms into the best version of himself that John has ever known. John, however, feels that he is as he ever was, at least in essentials. The stress and grief and pain of Mary's lies, betrayal, and eventual death has ebbed enough that he no longer feels it as a constant throbbing agony but more like a hangnail that only pains him when he catches it on something that rips open the wound. He supposes that this is how most people probably feel when they suffer a situation like this, but John really doesn't have a frame of reference other than when Ella tells him what's 'normal'. Between his father leaving when John was small, his mother's alcoholism, and his strained relationship with Harry, John's never known his life to exist _without_ dysfunction and stress, so for quite some time he doesn't feel that he has changed.

And then one day in early autumn, John stands at the kitchen peeling and sectioning an orange onto a small plastic plate decorated with unicorns when he realizes he's already done one for his daughter, who happily munches away in her high chair as juice drips down her face. He knows, though, without even stopping to consider, that he's made this one for Sherlock. The man barely eats on the best of days, despite his healthier attitude regarding sleep, and somewhere along the line, John realizes that he's started making a snack for Sherlock whenever he makes one for Rosie to ensure that his friend gets enough calories. The last time they lived together, John would berate Sherlock about food until they both got frustrated, then he would give up, tell Sherlock to go to the devil, and eventually coax him into eating something when the man got too hungry to function properly. Now, when John gives Rosie a hard-boiled egg for protein, he automatically shells another and leaves the neatly quartered pieces on a plate near his laptop where Sherlock is sure to see it and eat without thinking; he hangs a banana from Sherlock's music stand; he fills an extra small bowl with apple slices that he knows Sherlock will eat as Rosie teethes away at them, using the fruit pieces to explain the germination process to her; or he spreads marmalade on chunks of muffin (Sherlock hates the seeds in John's preferred blackberry jam), splitting them evenly between his daughter's plate and a bowl he leaves on the arm of Sherlock's chair. John's fairly certain that this little trail of snacks that he leaves for Sherlock have become the detective's main source of caloric intake, and John can't accurately point a finger at when he started this behavior, only knowing that it started after the night they shared a bed. John is wholly unsure of what to make of this phenomenon.

John becomes similarly baffled by the growing catalogue of differences in his own behavior that he notices with increasing frequency over the next few weeks. He's always been volatile when it comes to his temper even if he is more reticent about his other emotions, but his conduct seems a bit manic even to his own eyes. They get a case from Lestrade which seems, on its face, to be a simple burglary-turned-homicide which John would have written off as just a smash-and-grab gone wrong when witness walks in at the wrong moment; in a flurry of particularly inspired (and ostentatious) deductions, Sherlock notices some odd scratches on the broken safety glass at the jeweler's shop that revels an international ring of endangered animal traders run by the owner's illegitimate (and as such, non-inheriting) son who'd been blackmailing the proprietor into allowing his store to be a front for the trafficking for nearly a decade. The detective makes quite a showy declaration of his conclusions while hanging upside-down over the side of a hastily dug pit in the back of a warehouse despite the fact that, but for John's grip on his ankles, he would have been a chew toy for a bloody _tiger_. John smiles more that night than he has done in ages.

Naturally, he spends the next day writing up the case – which, much to Sherlock's chagrin, he titles _The Tiger's Eye Ring_ – while Rosie gums at some teething biscuits in her high chair next to him. Despite Sherlock's disdain, he's fairly proud of himself for managing to wrangle a ridiculously sensational case into relatively unembellished language. Sherlock reads it over his shoulder, huffing and eye-rolling and pretending not to be chuffed to come off like a cross between Indiana Jones and James Bond. As a result of Sherlock's good spirits, they enjoy a lovely, leisurely evening of dinner at Angelo's and a nice ramble around Regent's Park with Rosie charming all the nearby patrons in the restaurant as she shows them all her new stuffed tiger that Sherlock bought her – he's a bit puffed up with his own cleverness; it's going to take ages for John to deflate his ego over this one. They're just strolling past the Open Air Theater, Sherlock nattering on about the recent production of Oliver Twist, when a muffled moan comes from Sherlock's pocket. John glances from pocket to detective to pocket again, noting with no little amount of exasperation the rosy flush that suffuses his friend's high cheekbones. Sherlock ignores it, his face studiously blank, but the corner of his eye twitches as two more moans float out from the depths of the Belstaff in rapid succession.

John grinds his teeth. "Might as well see what she's said," he prompts with an acidic smile, trying to keep his voice even. "She seems insistent. After all, High Wycombe isn't that long a cab ride at this time of night."

Without waiting for a response, John wrenches the handles of Rosie's pushchair out of Sherlock's grip and starts off towards home. The entirety of the relatively short walk, he berates himself for acting like a stroppy teenager but just the reminder that Sherlock's been communicating with _her_ all this time puts him in a foul sulk. Sherlock doesn't return for a full seven hours, which John only knows because he's still staring angrily at the ceiling at 5am when the downstairs flat door opens and closes with a muted click. Obviously he's now moved on from stroppy teenager to jealous housewife, which only makes him even surlier. Unable to chase away his black mood even after a good sleep, John can't shake a feeling of general discomfiture until he sees Ella three days later.

Not a fortnight after the animal trafficking case, John ends up shouting himself purple at Sherlock, crowding into the loo with his med kit as the detective plunks down on the toilet, scowling and staunching a bleeding gash in his side with a tea towel. A case that _should_ have been a five at best went utterly tits up when a bookkeeper that Sherlock exposed to be defrauding the barrister who employed him pulled a knife as a last ditch effort to make a getaway before being apprehended. John's being unreasonable about it given that the wound isn't that deep and Sherlock's done worse to himself just in his own experiments in the flat, but Sherlock is bleeding quite profusely despite the cut being rather shallow. The sight of it yanks something loose in John's chest, his heart leaps into his throat, and every single technique Ella taught him to handle his anger goes squarely out the window.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock!" John rages, being decidedly rougher than he should be when placing the line of stitches just above Sherlock's right hip curving up and back towards his ribs. The gash is worryingly long but not deep. "Do you _have_ to be so antagonistic when you're determined to be clever? I realize that you can't stand not to demonstrate how brilliant you are, but could you at least refrain from _taunting_ people when they're holding a bloody weapon?"

Sherlock blithely ignores the scathing censure and scowls down at the gash. "Honestly, John it's not really deep enough to require stitches; you could have probably patched it up with medical grade glue and had done with it ten minutes ago. I got deeper scratches learning to shave." He hiccups and winces when John pulls a suture too tight and has to tug at Sherlock's skin to loosen. It. "Why are you so upset?"

"You're _bleeding,_ Sherlock. I know that usually doesn't even register to you but I'm patching you up from a _knife wound_ that could have been a hell of a lot worse. Why _shouldn't_ I be upset?"

The heavy brows wrinkle in consternation. "You've done it dozens of times before and never gotten this bothered by it. Why is this one so different?"

John glares up at him and spits back without thinking. "Because someday your luck is going to run out, Sherlock. I've had to watch you die right under my fingers twice now, I'm damn well not going to do it again. Someday you'll insult another nutter with a gun just a shade too much and it'll be _your_ chest that I'm pressing my fist into while you bleed out in front of my fucking eyes and I've had enough of losing the people I love! I've bloody well had enough, do you hear me?"

Sherlock gapes at him and John resolutely applies himself to laying the last few stitches. The detective winces a few more times as John works – little wonder; his typically peerless focus under stress is shot to hell – but Sherlock doesn't comment. John crouches under Sherlock's lifted arm to place the last few, grimacing and batting at the dangling cotton of his mangled shirt sleeve that keeps darting in front of John's line of vision.

"Can't you just take off the damn shirt?" John growls, desperate to change the subject. "You're not exactly modest and I can't get a good look at what I'm doing if I don't have good lighting. Why the hell would you insist on keeping it on anyway?"

Sherlock stiffens. "It's fine, John. You can leave off the stitches now."

Normally John would have ignored him and carried on with the last few but he's too upset to focus. He chucks the dirty needle in the direction of the med kit and stomps out of the lavatory without a second look, resolved to let Sherlock clean up the mess for once. It takes nearly an hour's walk around circling nearby streets to clear his head but once he does, John realizes the full measure of what an arse he'd been. Sherlock scared him and took unnecessary risk, no question, but it doesn't excuse his reaction to it, especially not when he'd been so determined to change how he deals with his anger after what he did to Sherlock at the hospital last spring. The worst part about it is that when he returns to Baker Street to apologize with his tail firmly tucked between his legs, Sherlock won't let him get through it.

"John, stop," he says quietly. " _Stop_."

John stems the tumble of remorseful self-flagellation into his folded hands and lifts his head. He's taken his chair across from where Sherlock has curled up in his own, head hung low between his shoulders as he hunches over his knees. God, after all these months of trying like hell to be better, healthier, he's still _no better_ —

" _John_ ," Sherlock remonstrates, interrupting his thoughts forcefully.

John realizes that at some point, Sherlock put his feet to the floor and mirrored John's position and leans forward with his forearms across his knees to bridge the space between them. "Stop berating yourself when there's no cause for it. I was careless and I shouldn't have been. I also never stopped to consider how it would affect you, given what hap—"

"Don't."

Sherlock startles at the firmness in John's voice.

"Don't do that thing where you act like you deserve my bad behavior. Don't act like you making a mistake justifies me being a complete boorish arse. It doesn't."

Sherlock ponders this and then offers, "If you'll promise me to stop flogging yourself for having the audacity to be imperfect."

John gives an unsteady chuckle. "Fair enough," he confirms.

Sherlock sighs heavily and sits back in his chair. "I really am sorry, John. I should have considered that seeing me wounded would be … unsettling to you, so close to the anniversary of what happened to Mary."

John stares at the hands he has clasped in front of him. "That's the weird bit: I wasn't even thinking of Mary until the words came out of my mouth."

Sherlock tilts his head in confusion but doesn't get the chance to ask before John answers the unspoken question.

"In hindsight, I'm sure that was part of it, all rolled in to my PTSD now. But Sherlock, I—" he swallows before continuing, "What happened to Mary wasn't just awful because I lost my wife, the woman I loved, right in front of me and I had to just sit there and watch it happen and not be able to help her. That's bad enough. But I sat there holding in her blood from a bullet in her chest … and it felt like being back in Magnussen's office, pressing my hand over the spot where a bullet was lodged in _your_ chest, watching the light go out of your eyes in the back of that ambulance and…."

He stops talking and hums a bit to try to clear the lump in his throat.

"And tonight, all I could think was what would happen if you were really hurt. What would happen if he managed to stick his knife in you somewhere that wouldn't leave time for medical help? I … just couldn't see past how I seem doomed to be helpless while the people I love die in my arms." He looks up to where Sherlock is sitting, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wound around them, his bare feet and old pajamas and posh dressing gown all at odds with each other, expression miserable and lost like a frightened little boy.

"John," Sherlock begins but the anguish in the deep baritone pulls too hard at a fresh wound.

John rises from his chair and walks to the kitchen. Standing in the door frame, he speaks without turning around. "Please just … I know what we do is dangerous but for God's sake—for _my_ sake—please don't throw your life away just to look clever in front of strangers. It'll never be worth it, in the end."

Sherlock stays quiet as John bangs around more than necessary for making tea. John doesn't know the answer to any of those 'What If' questions that ran through his head nor does he understand why suddenly the life-or-death daily reality of what they do suddenly seems terrifying as well as exciting, where it used to be simply exhilarating. John just adds it to the pile of unanswered questions swirling around him since he came back here to stay.

Another week goes by and John starts to wonder if he's actually coming down with something bizarre, as his body seems to be all at sixes and sevens. He seems to be in a constant, low-level state of jittery awareness over the last few days, primarily around Sherlock. The more time he lives at Baker Street, the tighter their orbits of each other become, the more John starts to feel something in his hind brain tensing, waiting for a cosmic shoe to drop. The fact that he can't point to any _specific_ marker of what it is he expects to happen becomes increasingly frustrating. He and Sherlock have been getting on exceedingly well – incidents such as the Great Text Debacle and that night with the knife wound notwithstanding – so that aura of anticipation seems completely unfounded. And yet ….

His heart pounds in his chest when Sherlock wanders into the kitchen in just his dressing gown, curls damp from his recent bath. He jumps when Sherlock rests a hand on his shoulder as the detective reaches around him for the marmalade, a cloud of fragrant, humid air from the bathroom still following in the detective's wake and sending John's senses into high alert. The man went to bloody Buckingham Palace in a sheet and John barely turned a head, but now it takes nearly ten solid minutes for John's pulse to go back to normal, scowling into his cereal bowl all the while. An accidental brush of Sherlock's fingertips across the back of John's neck make him suck in half the oxygen in the room while the detective gives one of his theatrical speeches that John has taken to calling "The Great Reveal" – although Agatha Christie would probably call it the dénouement – earning him a questioning (suspicious?) glance from Lestrade that John doggedly ignores.

For God's sake, John even had some kind of episode of … _something_ in the alley after their case the other night. They have a rather spectacular chase through Clerkenwell with some low rate thugs and end up ducking into an alley with a little alcove just big enough for the two of them to crowd in and escape their pursuers. He allows himself to be shooed into the tight space and shaded from the outer alley only because Sherlock is a) bloody insistent and b) wearing entirely dark clothing, so less likely to be spotted in their dingy surroundings. When pressed back into the alcove by the inexorable motion of Sherlock's body, John gets wedged tightly against a sharp corner without a way to turn his body to align flat to the wall; with nothing else to do with his arms in the limited space, John's hands drop to Sherlock's waist. Too late, he realizes that they end up underneath the folds of Sherlock's coat, settling onto the smooth fabric of his ungodly expensive shirt. Some footsteps clack in the outside corridor and Sherlock presses closer, his forearms braced above John's shoulders on the dirty bricks of the building and the heat of the other man's body radiating against John all the way down to his knees. Sherlock cranes his head sideways to listen for the thugs chasing them and John can't help notice that the position would look, to an objective observer, as if they'd slipped in here for an amorous embrace. John's arms are nearly laced around Sherlock's back now and his fists tighten over the prominent span of the detective's slim hips. Their position puts his face right into the base of Sherlock's throat and suddenly he's surrounded by the warm aromas of clean sweat drifting up from inside Sherlock's clothes, posh aftershave above John at his neck, the crispness of the laundry soap John buys and astringent tang of the antiseptic soap Sherlock uses after his experiments. Christ, how could he have not noticed how overwhelming all of these smells were surrounding his flatmate for years and then suddenly be overpowered by them in such an odd moment? And why in God's name is his heart galloping like a bloody racehorse and he can't seem to control his breathing and he may be panicking a tiny bit at the electric zip down his spine because it's far too close to that thrill he gets in the first flushes of arousal and—

"Come on, John," Sherlock rumbles in a low whisper, grasping the doctor's arm and tugging. "High time to get back to the Yard and show them what we've found."

And they're off again, running across London as John tries desperately to shake that feeling, whatever the hell it is, out of his chest.

It's late November when two mugs of tea cause all of the puzzle pieces to fall into place with sudden, inescapable, horrifyingly crystalline clarity. The first good, stiff chill of autumn whips through London during the daylight hours and by nightfall the entire city pleasantly huddles in for warmth. After the upheaval of the last few weeks, he finds the idea of a night at Baker Street with just himself, Sherlock, and Rosie lounging in front of the crackling fire in the grate to be a welcome comfort. He may not normally be the quiet night in type, but with Rosie drowsing against his chest in front of the fire, it seems idyllic. John rouses her long enough to feed her dinner while Sherlock picks away at something on his violin that John recognizes as a recent new composition. Once the girl is fed and watered, John plunks her on a play mat in between their chairs to make tea. By the time it's done, Sherlock has settled in his armchair, using his toes to occasionally topple the wobbly towers Rosie makes out of building blocks. Instead of being frustrated by the constant rebuild necessary when Sherlock knocks them over, Rosie jams her little tongue between her lips – something that teases out a grin that Sherlock always tries to hide – and sets to work making another tower, each one successively more stable and well-built than the previous attempt.

"She's a prodigy, John; mark my words."

John scoffs as he stands in the doorway from the kitchen, blowing gently across the surface of the tea he's just poured for Sherlock as the steam billows up in fragrant curls. The freshly boiled water in his own mug stands steeping on the counter but Sherlock always takes sugar in his so John starts his first to give it plenty of time to dissolve. The detective reaches out a long arm for the mug which John hands over with a chuckle.

"She's recreating whichever style of build you're less likely to kick over," John rejoins, amused. "That hardly makes her the next Norman Foster."

Sherlock sips his tea and smiles. "Nonsense. Frankly, I'm surprised you're not crowing on about the obvious superiority of your genetic material making itself known in your offspring."

Scoffing, John pads back for his own tea and returns with the steaming mug. "I was medicine not architecture, remember? And with you to remind me how ordinary I am all the time? Must be Mary's influence."

"Well," Sherlock says, playing as if he's pondering the matter, "she has me around, after all. Perhaps it's nurture instead of nature."

John wordlessly puts up two fingers on the hand not holding his tea and brings it up for a sip. Sherlock chuckles roundly at the rude gesture then shakes his head as John immediately winces at the scalding temperature of the drink.

"Honestly, John, I'll never understand you."

"All evidence to the contrary," he says and takes another drink despite it not being any cooler than a moment ago.

Sherlock gestures to John with his mug, crossing one long leg over the other. "You have the patience to let _my_ tea come to the right temperature and yet you can't stand to wait for your own to cool. As ever, John, you are positively an _enigma_."

Sarcasm and amusement are plain on Sherlock's face as he lounges languidly across from where John has gone rigid. Suddenly all of his hinky behavior over the last few months makes sense and it's all because of a bloody cup of tea. It was something he'd done for Mary, making her tea first so it would have time to cool before she drank it. When she was pregnant, she'd had trouble with her teeth and gums being extremely sensitive, so he'd gotten in the habit of making her tea before his own and blowing on it to cool it before he gave it to her. She seemed equally amused and touched by the process because she always remarked that by the time herswas cool, he was so impatient and intent on sharing the evening ritual _with_ her that he burned his mouth on his own because he refused to wait for it to cool. He'd once gotten frustrated and asked her what was so bloody sweet about that and she'd favored him a brilliant smile before answering, "That's real love, John: a man who'll burn his mouth every night just so I won't drink my tea all alone." Thinking back on it, John realizes he's been doing the same thing with Sherlock for months now, the damn nightly tea scalding. If he stacks it up in his mind next to the trail of snacks, the annoyance at Irene Adler's texts, the terror at Sherlock's injury, and that moment in the alley, it's impossible for his brain to miss what this really means. Jesus. _Jesus. **He's in love with Sherlock.**_

John's mug slides out of his numb fingers and crashes to the floor.

Rosie's cry of alarm snaps John out of his stupor and within seconds, he and Sherlock are both leaping forward towards her. She wails in pain and fear as a splosh of steaming liquid leaps from the shattering mug and splashes across her arm and neck. Sherlock gets to her first since she'd been playing near him, scooping her up into his arms and away from the spill, managing to keep her from the worst of it. That doesn't stop all of John's immediate battle instincts from kicking into gear, though, and he's tearing away the sopping, searing fabric of her onesie as Sherlock attempts to calm her hysterical shrieks. They bustle her immediate into the kitchen where John heaves on the faucet, letting the water temperature drop just enough to be cool but not cold. Sherlock has stripped away her nappy as well by the time he reaches the kitchen; without the need for words, he follows John's train of thought and plops the girl in the sink, tilting her reddened skin under the trickle of water to help stop and soothe the burn. Only then does he look up to catch the doctor's eyes. John can only hold them for a minute before he refocuses on Rosie, crouching in front of the sink to murmur to his daughter as her cries become less panicked and more pained. He's stroking his thumbs across her red, mottled cheeks as he croons to her.

"It's all right, love; it's okay," John says in his calmest tone, trying not to betray the squeeze of worry in his chest. "I'm so sorry, darling. You're all right. I'm so sorry—"

"John," Sherlock attempts.

John doesn't respond. His hands tremble a bit but he keeps stroking her cheek and swiping the cool water gently across the streaks of enflamed skin on her left arm and up her chest and neck.

"It's okay, my love, shhhh. You're going to be all right. Daddy's going to take care of you. I'm so sorry." This time, the apology gets stuck in his throat and his voice hitches.

"John."

Sherlock's voice pitches low and soft and John feels the gentle but insistent pressure of Sherlock's hand at his shoulder. He resists looking up at the detective but Sherlock slides his hand down from the shoulder to grip John's elbow, grasping him firmly enough to telegraph his intention. John lets himself be pulled away from the sink and steered to a kitchen chair.

"Sit," Sherlock says, his voice still low. "I'll take care of her. Take a moment to calm down."

"I'm perfectly—"

"No, you're not," Sherlock cuts through. When John makes to get up again, Sherlock pushes down on his shoulder and the gesture is decidedly less gentle. John sits. He watches Sherlock go to the sink and mimic John's movements, sluicing water over Rosie's shoulder, neck, chest, and anywhere he thinks the tea might have splashed her, murmuring all the while. Eventually, she stops sobbing and trails off into whimpering sniffles.

"How long?" Sherlock says, casting John a look over his shoulder.

"Another fifteen minutes or so," he answers woodenly to Sherlock and then leans around the detective to gaze at his daughter. Rosie reaches out with her right hand and whimpers, eyes filling as she leans towards John.

"Daddy!" she sobs. "Daddy, ouchie!"

"I know, love, I know," John answers, reaching out around Sherlock's hip to touch his fingertips to Rosie's outstretched palm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you ouchie."

John feels his own eyes water as Rosie clutches his fingers and turns her face into Sherlock's damp palm. The detective bends and murmurs to her for another few minutes, his voice rasping a bit when Rosie presses her damp cheek to his. As the water trickles over her shoulder and John counts the minutes, Sherlock speaks soothingly and eyes John.

Eventually, Sherlock speaks. "What's wrong?"

John tries not to stiffen – obvious tell – but he's not sure he succeeds. "Nothing."  
"John—"

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John answers stiffly. "I just—"

"Don't lie to me, John," Sherlock interrupts. "I thought … I thought that we were trying to … trying to be better. To each other and to ourselves."

He opens his mouth but finds he has no good response.

"If it's—" Sherlock starts, turns back to clutch at the counter, and tries again while staring ahead at the cupboards. "If you don't want to tell me what it is then say so, but don't lie and tell me that nothing's wrong. Even if I didn't have the powers of observation that I have, I know you too well not to see that there's _something_. Don't insult me by pretending I can't see it."

John gulps and nods. "There's … something. And I will tell you, I just … not now, all right? I just need some time to think it through."

Sherlock's curls bounce a bit as he gives a single tight nod. John sees his hunched shoulders work as he pulls Rosie from the sink, wraps a towel around her bottom and cradles her against his chest.

"Let me have a look," John prompts.

Dragging the other chair over with his foot, Sherlock places Rosie on the table between them. John gives her a quick once-over and is relieved to see that the lion's share of the redness has gone down. On further inspection, though, there's still an angry patch near her collarbone that hasn't calmed and causes the little girl to howl when he gingerly presses a fingertip to the nearby area.

"Get me the liquid paracetamol from the bathroom cupboard, would you?" John says to Sherlock, trying to keep his voice steady.

Sherlock fetches it and returns swiftly, handing the medicine over to John and watching like a hawk as John doses her and brushes the wisps of hair away from her face. Another few minutes go by as he waits for the medicine to take effect; when he angles her neck to take another look, he lets out a gruff curse.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is tight with anxiety despite his calm expression.

"Go down and get a cab, will you?" John answers as he lifts Rosie up against his chest.

"What's the matter?"

He can't help the angry edge to his words when he strides towards the stairs. "She's starting to blister; we're going to have to take her to the A&E. I'm going to get her dressed and I'll be down in five minutes. Have a cab waiting."

Sherlock grabs the Belstaff and is gone in a flurry of wool and curls.

"Oh, bugger it," John mutters as they sit in the waiting room of the A&E.

Sherlock regards him with a raised eyebrow. John rocks Rosie in his arms as she sniffles and sucks her thumb. He leans towards Sherlock, hoping that his comments won't be overhead when the detective leans in as well.

"We'd better hope that we get a doctor who has kids or is tremendously understanding."

Sherlock pulls a face. "What makes you say that?"

John scowls as well. "Sherlock, we're sitting here with a toddler that has a second-degree blistering burn on her neck at half past ten on a Tuesday night. They're going to think we've abused her."

Sherlock jerks so violently in his chair that John clutches at the man's leg with his free hand and shushes him. They lean back together again once John throws the receptionist a tight smile.

"Most A&E doctors would be suspicious of two middle-aged men bringing in a toddler with a burn at this hour of the night, Sherlock. And on top of that, any good doctor would at least _consider_ writing a referral to Child Protection for a father that has scalding liquids within striking distance of his two-year-old. _I've_ written referrals for things like that. Jesus," John pinches at the bridge of his nose with his free hand and tries not to let his voice falter, "Jesus, I've become the sort of father who needs a Child Protection referral against him."  
"John, you most certainly are _not_ that sort of father," Sherlock remonstrates in a harsh whisper. "You dropped the cup by accident—"

"Onto the floor where my toddler was playing," he interrupts harshly.

" _John_ ," Sherlock whispers, but even though his tone is sharp, he threads an arm around John's back and places his open palm behind the shoulder where Rosie rests. "You're too hard on yourself."

The reassuring weight of Sherlock's hand and the warmth of his arm at John's back feels … good. Comforting. He's barely aware that he's leaning into the circle of Sherlock's arm until he registers that the detective has angled himself in so that John's side presses in against his. John stares hard at the top of Rosie's head, trying to gather the courage to say something when Sherlock's arm tenses behind John's back and pulls the doctor just tiny bit closer. A puff of Sherlock's breath ruffles the hair above his ear and John turns his head, finding Sherlock's face much nearer than he'd expected. He's just opening his mouth to speak when a high voice says, "Watson?" from the other end of the room.

From anyone else's perspective, John supposes that the way they leap apart from each other when they quit their chairs probably looks fairly comical. As a matter of fact, the nurse holding the clipboard at the entrance to the waiting room raises an eyebrow as they both stride towards her but, mercifully, she says nothing. The petite brunette bustles around them taking Rosie's temperature and weight, getting a look at the burn, and asking for a basic statement on what happened. The nurse plonks Rosie down on the exam table, shooing them towards uncomfortable chairs in the corner as she examines Rosie's neck. John notes a distinct expression of disapproval on the nurse's face when he begins, "Rosie was playing on the floor between us; I'd just handed Sherlock his cup of tea and sat down with my own when—"

"The mug slipped right from my fingers," Sherlock babbles in a voice tight with entirely fake anxiety.

John gapes at him, well familiar with this voice: it's the one he uses when he either wants to coax a power-drunk suspect into thinking he's weak or a hysterical victim into sympathizing and divulging key facts. What he can't figure out is why Sherlock is pretending that _he_ was the one to douse Rosie on accident.

"Stupid, stupid!" Sherlock goes on, his normal baritone pitching up with uneasiness. "John knows I would _never_ do anything to hurt his daughter; never! Don't you, John?"

He turns a beseeching look to John with eyes that quite clearly entreat John to just go along with the story.

John nods and murmurs as he pats Rosie's back. "Of course not. I know you'd never—"

Sherlock reaches a hand into John's lap and weaves his fingers together with John's, compressing his hand in a tight grip when John jumps in surprise.

"We've barely been living together six months," Sherlock goes on, clutching at John's hand, "but I wanted so much to show him I can be good with her, that he can trust me to look after her and—"

John recognizes his cue, as Sherlock has started to glance back and forth between the two of them with a desperate expression, so he picks up their twined hands and lays his other one over the top. John pulls Sherlock's focus to him with a thumb and forefinger under his chin.

"Hey," he says quietly, slipping into the role of calm and doting boyfriend that Sherlock has clearly assigned him. "I know that you didn't mean to hurt her. Accidents happen," he finishes, his voice hitching.

The faux-anxious expression slides from the detective's face and he gives John a gentle, satisfied smile. The long, slim fingers gentle but don't leave John's grip.

"You're right, of course," Sherlock says quietly. "Accidents happen. We're all only just human, right?"

"Exactly," John agrees.

"Yes, well," the nurse says in a tight voice, but she doesn't finish the thought. Her eyes dart between them and John's not sure, but he's reasonably certain the disapproval only intensifies. Despite the fact that, at one time, John might have seen that censorious stare and quickly removed his hand from Sherlock's, John finds himself clasping the long digits all the more, sitting straighter in his chair and pinning her back with his best military glare that he used on unruly privates in Afghanistan.

Unsurprisingly, the nurse withers under the stare, mumbles, "I'll just go see if the doctor's available to see you now," and darts out of the room.

John smirks at her back as the door clicks shut. He turns to regard Sherlock and pulls up short at the expression on his friend's face. There's something sharp in the blue-green eyes, something that makes John's pulse hammer in his throat until Rosie bleats at him from her place in the little supportive chair that they placed her in on the exam table. John's legs wobble a bit when he gets up to retrieve her. They stay quiet for a long moment after John has cuddled Rosie in his lap but eventually John has to ask, "So what was all that with you taking the blame for the tea?"

Sherlock quirks a brow at him with that infuriating _Isn't It Obvious?_ expression but this time it's paired with a tiny, fond smile and a loose shrug. "I thought that there'd be a much smaller likelihood of a Child Protection referral on a high-strung long-time bachelor anxious to impress his new live-in boyfriend than a doctor who should have known better and was careless with his tea around his young daughter."

John flinches in spite of himself and watches Sherlock's expression flash from amusement to shock. Turning his face away guiltily, John jumps a bit when Sherlock's hand clasps his and pulls it away from where he'd wrapped it around Rosie's middle.

"I didn't mean," Sherlock fumbles. "I just meant that's what a stranger might _see_. Because they don't know you as I do. You're not careless, John."

"I was just then. Rosie got hurt because I was … distracted."

Sherlock doesn't attempt to contradict him – he _was_ distracted, after all – but he does slide his long fingers in between John's again, squeezing just enough for John to feel it. John's pulse hammers in his ears and he stares down at their joined fingers. His voice comes out just above a whisper but it sounds too loud.

"You don't have to… It's just part of the act, isn't it?"

"Not entirely." The detective stares forward at the wall for a moment then regards John. "You seemed to need it."

"I—yeah, I suppose I did."

A long, loaded pause. "Do you still?"

John clears his throat. "I dunno." Mary's voice in his head: _Do better, John._ "Yeah, maybe."

John's breath falters when Sherlock's thumb sweeps across the top of his. Another gentler sweep when some of the tension slides out of John's shoulders.

"You don't have to—" It's a husky whisper now.

"I don't mind."

John's positive this isn't really what Sherlock means to say. The air in the tiny room feels alight with tension and anticipation and John's entire focus narrows to the two stretches of skin beneath his fingers: his daughter's warm belly as she perches on his knee and Sherlock's long, smooth fingers. Despite the hum of energy crowding around him, John smiles.

"What's funny?" the detective asks.

John's grin widens. "You have cold hands," he says simply. John can't really pinpoint precisely why he finds this funny but it makes him laugh, a low chuckle that teases an answering rumble from the man next to him.

"A common ailment of the desperately long-limbed, I'm afraid," Sherlock muses, then slides a slick smirk to John. "Not that you'd know anything about that."

"Oi!" John retorts without any heat to it. "I'm not that short."

"The average British male is five foot _nine_ , John."

Lanky git. "That's not _that_ much—"

"Two full inches, John." Sherlock turns to give him an assessing glance without dislodging Rosie or their twined hands. "Two and a half."

John scowls. "Two _at most_."

Sherlock just stares flatly.

"Lanky git." It bears stating out loud.

The detective stretches his slim right leg from where it had been crossed over his left and regards it thoughtfully. "They do come in handy here and there. Although it does make trouser shopping more difficult."

John scoffs. "As if you don't just have some posh store make them bespoke."

"And now you know _why_."

John makes a loud noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

"We can't all dress ourselves exclusively at Primark, John."

"Oh, for—" John grouses, catching the blooming smirk on Sherlock's face. "I suppose if I were built like a damn giraffe and had unlimited resources—"

"Honestly, John, the jumper you wore to my mother's birthday tea in September—"

"—I could swan around in Spencer Hart, too, but us mortal beings have to be a bit more thrifty," John carried on loudly.

"—looked like curtains my grandmother would buy at Oxfam," Sherlock retorts. "For God's sake, John, at lease press your nose up against the window of Burberry, would you? It's the least you could do if you're going to be seen with me. The _very_ least."

The grin that Sherlock aims at John is full of mischief so John puts his nose in the air. "Until you and your brother's unlimited gold card decide to fund a new wardrobe for me, I guess you'll just have to put up with the assault on your fashion sensibilities. And I happen to like that jumper, you prat."

"You looked ridiculous."

"I did _not_. I looked comfortable and responsible for a toddler who has a knack for ruining clothing."

"Is that your excuse? What about the five years I'd known you before she was born?"

"God, you're such an arrogant arse. I don't even know why I put up with you," John says it with heavy sarcasm, but the twinkle in Sherlock's eye says he enjoys the banter as much as John is. That and the way Sherlock's grip tightens around John's hand.

"Would you?" Sherlock asks, his expression turning thoughtful.

John blinks a bit at the non-sequitur. "Would I what?"

"Let me choose a new wardrobe for you?"

For a moment, John's chest warms a bit at the idea of Sherlock putting that much care into John's appearance. Until, of course, he continues speaking.

"Obviously, my taste is far superior, so really it could only improve—"

" _No_."

"But John—"

"No, Sherlock. Your taste is fine for _you_ , but not for me. I'm Action Man, remember? Not a bloody Ken Doll."

"At least Action Man didn't favor such god-awful jumpers."

Delivering a particularly well-aimed elbow to Sherlock's ribcage, John relishes Sherlock's "oof!" a little more than he should, jigging Rosie up and down and making a few soothing noises when she startles and starts to cry a bit at the jostling.

"Oh, sorry, love," John murmurs, leaning over to whisper in your ear. "Didn't mean to upset you, just needed to teach your—"

John's speak grinds to a halt when the exam room door swings open and a tall woman with golden hair pulled back into queue at the back of her head and clad in pink scrubs slips inside. Unfortunately, John's mind sticks on the words he'd been about to say just prior to her entrance. What had he been about to call Sherlock? It hadn't been his name, it had been a _title_ that was ready to roll off of his tongue. But … what could he have possibly meant to say? Surely not "daddy" – that was John, obvious – and definitely not "god-father"; Sherlock was the only one to refer to himself as such. It's an accurate term, yes, but John never used it because it seemed so inadequate to encompass what Sherlock is to John and to Rosie. So what had he meant to say? John shakes his head to clear it when he realizes that both the doctor and Sherlock are staring at him.

"I apologize," he says. "Late night and high emotion, I'm a bit shattered."

"Understandable," she says and gives him a smile far more chipper than an A&E staff around midnight would usually afford. "Just introducing myself. You didn't miss much."

John flushes guilty and a little part of him hiccups when he realizes he has to pull his hand from Sherlock's to offer to the doctor to shake. "John Watson, and this is Rosamund."

Rosie gazes up at the doctor balefully and jams her whole hand in her mouth. The doctor smiles as she takes John's hand and gives a few firm pumps but he doesn't miss that her sharp hazel eyes travel over him then Rosie then Sherlock, all in the space of the handshake.

"Kathryn Simon, pleasure," she says in a bright, nasal accent that he places as East Coast American. He was stationed with a bloke from upstate New York who sounded just like her. She bends to regard the little girl now glaring at her with heavy suspicion from under her blonde lashes.

"Hello, Miss Rosamund, I'm Katie," she says and offers Rosie her hand. To the amusement of all the adults, Rosie removes her soggy fist from her mouth and clasps the doctor's forefinger in an unmistakable shaking gesture. "Polite little one you have there," the doctor says to John and then turns a sympathetic face back to Rosie. "I hear you've had a rough night, haven't you? Could one of you give me a rundown on what happened?"

Sherlock unfolds one arm from under the drape of the Belstaff and offers his hand with a flat, almost challenging look on his face. "Sherlock Holmes," he says in a voice that is higher and smoother than his normal tone. John's eyebrows wing up.

"And you…?" the doctor asks, clasping his hand and giving it the same attention as she had the other two people in the room but her eyes flicker back to John.

"Live with Dr. Watson."

 _Emphasizing my title?_ _What's that all about?_

"Great!" she says in the same chipper tone. "Can you tell me what happened then?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes just a tiny bit. _Curious._ Sherlock gives her the same story as he'd given the nurse only with a little more charm and a little less anxiety. More than once, John notes that every time the doctor's focus shifts to John, Sherlock's hand alights somewhere on John's body: first the back of his knuckles against John's elbow, then a palm over his wrist, and when Dr. Simon favors John with a bright smile, spread fingers that linger on John's thigh. That last one has John falling back on his military training so he won't let the surprise show on his face. After the quick recitation of the story, Dr. Simon reaches out both hands towards Rosie so John hands her over, murmuring to her when the girl whines a bit in protest.

"Oh, I know!" Dr. Simon croons to her as she sets the girl up on the exam table. "It's so awful to be poked and prodded by a stranger when you're sleepy and hurting, but I'll be quick, I promise."

Rosie reaches out a chubby fist and grabs the air in John's direction but the detective and the doctor are both between them so he can't quite reach her. When John lifts a hand, Sherlock takes it in his own and lowers their joined grip to Sherlock's own thigh, stretching out his hand for Rosie to grip. She clutches it tightly as the doctor angles her neck to get a better look at the patch that has now sprouted a three small blisters. They aren't large enough to give serious concern; John recognizes this as a doctor, of course, but as a father, the sound of his daughter crying out in pain at the examination has him clamping his fingers around Sherlock's as he tries to maintain a stoic face. Sherlock's hands are the only parts of him that react: an open palm for Rosie, which she grabs at greedily, and a tight compression to match the strength of John's grip. The doctor _hmmm_ s a bit, gingerly tilting Rosie's neck this way and that, and then straightens to rummage in a drawer of the cabinet nearby.

"Nothing too bad," she says as she forages and produces a small tube. She uses a swab covered in cotton wool to apply a cream to Rosie's neck and then bandages it, making a soft whooshing sound every time the girl whimpers. She turns her head just slightly to address Sherlock and John as she works. "You're a doctor then, John, so I don't have to spell it all out?"

John nods and gives a tight smile. "A brief diagnosis is fine."

She casts her eyes to Sherlock briefly and he bites off a curt, "I'm _very_ clever. I'm sure I can keep up."

Seemingly unperturbed, Dr. Simon nods and answers, "Superficial epidermal burns on her arm and chest – swelling and redness mostly reduced by the cool water and paracetamol you gave her, so good thinking – and a relatively superficial dermal burn at the juncture of her neck. It's the dermal burn that's a bit more concerning given that it penetrates deeper, obviously, and the fact that it's blistering, but given that it's been about three hours since the initial incident and there's no further swelling or profusion of blisters, I'd say it's likely that she won't have any lingering effects." She strips off and disposes of her nitrile gloves, binning them and leaning against the count to regard them both. "I applied some lidocaine cream, which I will give you to take with you, and I'll write you a script for it, but she probably won't need it that long. Potential for a small scar at the juncture of her neck where the burn is the worst, but nothing too horrible if it does scar. She should be just fine."

Rationally, John probably could have determined that all on his own. Even so, he also knows that rationality rarely comes into play when dealing with your child being injured, so he's not too ashamed of the heavy sigh of relief that comes out of him when he stands to retrieve Rosie. Sherlock stands – silent and still, more's the wonder – next to John, giving a single squeeze of his hand before John moves towards the exam table. The girl thrusts her arms in the air the instant John nears her, whimpering at him as he hugs her to his chest. He shakes the doctor's hand again and gives her a rueful smile when Sherlock insinuates himself between the two of them and sweeps out the door without another word.

"Sorry about that," John says with a grin as he shakes her hand. "Not sure what's gotten into him but … well, it's nothing new."

She gives a huff of laughter and they both cast their eyes down the hall after Sherlock's retreating figure. "Your friend, is he … a life partner? Business partner? Live-in babysitter?"

John tries not to sigh as he prepares to give her the Not His Area speech that he's given to dozens of other women instantly enamored with the detective and his bloody cheekbones, but when John refocuses his attention on the doctor, there is an unmistakable spark of interest in her eyes and Sherlock is not the target. John's Pulling Smile – as Mary had jokingly called it – leaps to his face without thought.

"Some combination of the three," he jokes. And because he can't resist, "Why? Which one were you hoping for?"

"Babysitter," she says without hesitation. She comes up close and uses two fingers to push the tube of cream for Rosie into his front trouser pocket rather than the much more accessible jacket pocket. Her smile is unrepentant in the face of John's raised eyebrows. "Hoping for an excuse to slip you something much more exciting than medicine. Maybe my cell number. For house calls, obviously."

John smiles because this is normally the part where he would give some teasing response that would hook her interest as he scrawled her number on a slip from his pocket. But his eyes flicker back to the disappearing Belstaff and he can't seem to find the anticipation he would have felt once upon a time.

He settles for, "It's complicated."

She gives him a rueful smile. "Isn't it always? Good night, Miss Rosamund. Have a good sleep and you'll be all better."

John shakes her hand again and thanks her before turning to head out the front doors.

"Oh, and John?"

He turns at the sound of her voice and is surprised to see her regarding him with a kind but concerned expression.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. Accidents do happen, you know. Even to doctors."

She laughs at his stunned expression. "Mr. Holmes's story. It was a bit _too_ smooth. I've seen that here a lot, although usually with much more nefarious intentions." Her face pinches then turns up with another lopsided smile. "Give yourself a break, John; it could have happened to anyone. And really, you're lucky to have someone who cares so much about protecting you."

John finds himself at a loss to respond so he just nods and turns to go. A cab stands just outside the front entrance with its side door open, Sherlock already crowded to the far side with his face buried in his phone. John ducks inside, careful not to jostle Rosie too much as he sits. At least five solid minutes go by in silence as London whips by them. Despite the detective's front of complete absorption in his phone, John sees that Sherlock's eyes haven't changed focus since John sat down.

"You were talking to the doctor for quite a while," Sherlock says eventually, his irises almost transparent from the bright light of the screen in the dark cab.

John squelches a smile. He talked to Dr. Simon for no more than thirty seconds once Sherlock left. "Mmmmm," he mutters noncommittally, rocking Rosie. He has no doubt waiting the detective out will yield interesting results. He's not wrong.

"Did she offer to 'make a house call'?" he jibes with no small amount of disdain.

John clamps his lips together momentarily to keep from laughing. "As a matter of fact, she did."

"Ugh, Americans." Sherlock scoffs. "So ridiculously predictable."

John _so nearly_ makes a comment about the ugliness of jealousy but decides to leave it be.

Sherlock doesn't disappoint, though. "When are you meeting her?"

"I'm not." John's remains placid as Sherlock finally drops the pretense of staring at his phone.

"Why not?"

Shrugging, John answers, "I don't need a doctor who makes house calls. I have a live-in detective."

Sherlock turns his face away towards the window but John catches the reflection of a small grin in the window glass.


	2. Morning Rituals

A/N - please take note of the change in rating for this chapter. *winky eyes* It's about to get sexy all up in this piece. Also, in this chapter, you'll see my take on what Sherlock's sexuality actually is. And as you'll see ... my John is a bit of a cock tease. Sorry not sorry. ^_^

As always, a huge thanks to my beta bigblueboxat221b, as she is amazing both as a beta and as a writer.

Thanks for following along and I hope you enjoy. Keeping it short in my author's note for once.

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

* * *

 **Chapter Two – Morning Rituals**

To say that John is disappointed in the days following his epiphany would be a vast understatement. Well, of course he's relieved that Rosie recuperates from the scalding almost immediately (faster than John recovers from the guilt) with only a tiny little fleck of a scar just at the base of her neck, and that only because John can't keep her fingers off the scab once the blister had started to heal. Sherlock, on the other hand … John can't help but be disappointed. He tries to keep it close to the chest but the fact that Sherlock acts no differently in the days following the A&E trip is as baffling as it is frustrating. From the well of supportive calm to the gentle clasp of his hand in John's, Sherlock had given the impression that even if he wasn't overflowing with ardent affection, at least maybe John wasn't barmy or alone in his feelings. Maybe there'd been something to it all these years when people saw them as a couple. Although the detective hasn't suddenly reverted to the age-old gruff dismissal of sentiment the way he used to, things settle back into a place where John sometimes feels as if he imagined the whole evening. Only the tiny mark on Rosie's neck and the ghost-like memory of cool digits wrapped around his own makes him think it wasn't some kind of hallucination. So John spends the next week doing the only thing he can think of: putting his head down and soldiering on.

It's not so different, really, as far as his normal daily routine is concerned. In any case, the _routine_ isn't different; _John_ is different. He feels wound up like a bed spring now, second-guessing every action, trying not to appear _too_ fond but at the same time trying not to overcompensate and be too distant. At first he thinks he's doing an okay job of it despite feeling like he's been thrown back to his teen years. It's entirely too reminiscent of those days when everything about fancying someone felt so important and loaded. Except that this _is_ important and loaded, and it's driving him round the twist. Somewhere around day three, he realizes that Sherlock has taken to watching him like a hawk. Apparently he's not done as well as he thought. Sherlock has always been the actor, after all. John takes a few more shifts at the clinic the upcoming week, hoping that burying himself in sniffling children and adults too embarrassed to go to their GP will keep his mind off bloody Sherlock.

The Monday after the A&E incident, he's running incredibly late getting ready for work. Rosie spent the entire weekend cutting another tooth and being completely miserable about it; Sherlock hasn't had a case in nearly a week. As a result, John spends the majority of his two days' rest dealing with _two_ unreasonable children. Sleep deprivation, John decides with one last look in the mirror before leaving, is not a good look on him. He's just glad Sherlock hasn't left his room yet this morning, otherwise he'd likely have heard an exhaustive list of all the ways he looks like complete and utter shite this morning. As a matter of fact, he hasn't looked or felt this knackered since Rosie started sleeping through the night at eight months old. It's not entirely surprising, then, that John's gotten halfway to the Baker Street tube station before he realizes that he's left behind Rosie's medical records that he's supposed to fax over to her new pediatrician this week in anticipation of her two-year-old checkup at the end of next month. He grouses to himself the entire walk back to the flat, periodically checking his watching and swearing. At this rate, he'll be so late it'll be lunch time when he gets there and he knows he's far too curt when he rings the clinic to warn them but he really can't be bothered to be polite.

Jogging up the stairs, John hears some shuffling about towards the back of the flat which means that His Royal Highness must have deigned to rouse himself for the day. After eleven, so it's about bloody time. John's left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson the way he does every Monday – her "special day with her honorary granddaughter" as Mrs. Hudson puts it – so he doesn't worry about the noise he's making as he bangs around in the drawers of the sitting room desk, cursing increasingly loudly when he discovers that Rosie's papers seem to have completely vanished. A few muffled thumps from the back to the flat draw John's attention and, in the interest of time, he resolves to go ask Sherlock where he stashed the damn folder so that John can just bloody well get it and get out of here.

John raps his knuckles against the door. "Sherlock? I'm looking for Rosie's medical records, have you seen them? I was sure I put them in the top drawer of the desk but they're not there …."

A low rumble of voice that could be his name hits John's ears as he leans towards the door but Sherlock talks to himself when John's not there all the time, so it doesn't stop John from swinging the door open to ask his question again. Once John takes a step into the room, the enquiry freezes on his lips and all his stunned brain can manage to put forth is that he's not sure whether or not he wishes he hadn't come in. He barely even registers the feel of the doorknob in his hand as he clutches it for support, he just stares. And stares. And no matter how much he stares, he can't seem to process what he's seeing.

Sherlock sprawls across the center of the duvet, limbs splayed in that gangly starfish formation he usually occupies when he's sleeping, which isn't terribly surprising, but for his knees bent up to put his feet on the bed. He's completely nude which, unfortunately (fortunately?) for John, isn't all that terribly surprising either. What John can't seem to parse, however, is that one of Sherlock's hands works steadily up and down the flushed length of his erect cock, curved up high towards his belly and wet at the tip. The detective seems completely oblivious to John's intrusion, his head thrown back into his pillow, putting that long pale neck on full display as his other hand – oh holy Christ, John's only just noticed – pushes a flesh-colored toy of some kind or other between his legs and out of sight. When Sherlock draws his hand and the toy in a long stroke backwards, John can tell that it's shaped like a cock. _Jesus._

"John – ah! – John…?"

The doctor's heart is in his throat and he sends the door banging off the wall behind him as his knees nearly go out from under him. He leans against the wall for support. Even with all the joking he'd done about Sherlock's 'bedroom voice', John never actually expected to hear said voice _in_ a bedroom. Saying _his name. Like_ _ **that**_ _._

"John?" Sherlock says again, only this time John notices that it's distinctly a question. "John, what do you want?"

He has a moment of complete and unadulterated panic that Sherlock has found him out on his recent epiphany – although said epiphany somehow hadn't progressed to something like _this_ – but then he regroups enough to realize that Sherlock is no doubt asking why in hell John interrupted what seems to be a rather spectacular wank session. _Jesus._

"I—what?" Two solid minutes to recover and this is all he can come up with. In his defense, though, _Sherlock is wanking._ _ **Sherlock**_ _._ John feels certain that this merits a little forgiveness on his inability to think.

Both of Sherlock's hands still but don't leave their appointed positions. John wrenches his gaze up to the detective's face, florid and tipped towards him with an inquisitive expression.

"You needed something?" Sherlock says between panting breaths. His hands tremble with the effort to remain still.

"I … have no bloody idea what it was," John blathers. And honestly, his head feels completely fucking blank. He's lucky to remember his name, really, because it finally penetrates John's brain that Sherlock isn't just wanking, he's bloody well _fucking himself_ right in front of John's eyes

"Well then, if you don't mind …." Sherlock answers as if he's been interrupted shaving or combing his hair or something else equally innocuous.

John just gapes like a landed codfish.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and smirks just a tiny bit. "You see, I was just getting to a crucial moment, so …."

"Right." He's trying desperately to restart his neurons firing but he just keeps blinking and gaping and gripping the doorknob.

Sherlock laughs – actually fucking _laughs_ – as he props himself up on one elbow to regard John's wall-eyed gaze. "John, were you intending to stay and watch me finish?"

"I—what? No!" There. More than one word. It seems like progress. Although his ruby-red cheeks probably aren't doing him any favors.

Then why are you still standing there staring?"

"Right. Right!" John says, jumping a bit as he kicks into motion. "Sorry, I just—" As he casts his eyes away from the bed, they catch on a manila folder sitting atop Sherlock's dresser. John's legs wobble beneath him as he skirts along the side of the room to snatch it up. "Sorry. Rosie's medical records. I was. Looking for them. I'll just—" He flails one hand back towards the flat door. "Go then. To work. Sorry."

John heaves the door shut behind him and leans on it for a second to recover his faculties. The instant he does, though, he hears the low grunts of voice resume and a rather enthusiastic noise that makes John's spine tingle. He rockets down the stairs and resolves to take a cab to work to save time and damn the cost. He's just pulling up outside the clinic when he realizes he's rock hard in his trousers. It takes a good five minutes of sitting on a very cold bench outside the clinic before he feels collected enough to go inside without scandalizing anyone.

* * *

John proceeds to have what may be his least productive day of his entire career, and that's counting the day he found out his mum died and the first day of locum work with Sarah where he'd gone on no sleep because of Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock. It's his fault this time as well. John's barely able to focus on the patients in front of him because every time he closes his eyes – even for just long enough to blink – the back of his eyelids lights up with the image of Sherlock wanking and fucking himself with the bloody fake cock and John can't think about anything else. Worse, his brain keeps cycling through a myriad of questions that he can't possibly get answers to: does Sherlock wank a lot? What would "a lot" even mean to someone like Sherlock? On one hand, he's exhibited absolutely zero interest in sex the entirety of the time that John's known him (before today); on the other, he's got the very definition of an addictive personality, so it wouldn't be so out of the realm of possibility to think that he would do it any time he got bored. Does he only do it when John's not in the flat? Does he do it _every_ time John's not in the flat? Is it just in his room or does he wank in other places? Oh God, where else in the flat would Sherlock wank? Knowing Sherlock, it could be anywhere. Or _everywhere_. The man has no bloody concept of personal boundaries about anything else so the chances he would have modesty about this are pretty slim. God only knows where he would—and unfortunately, that starts John's brain _picturing_ all the places and ways Sherlock could be wanking when John isn't there.

In his room, obvious; John's already seen proof of that. And really, that would be the most obvious choice for most people. The shower, maybe? That's another logical choice; usually that's what John does, for ease of clean up and convenient background noise, especially now that he shares a room with his two-year-old daughter. Sherlock usually precedes John into the bath in the mornings now … has John ever stepped in under the stream of water and touched his own cock just after Sherlock had been in there doing the same thing? Something about the thought of that, the possibility that they may have come in the same place just minutes apart makes John's limbs feel watery.

Does he ever do it elsewhere in the flat? The kitchen or sitting room? John knows that Sherlock wouldn't do it on the days where he was minding Rosie; whatever lack of boundaries Sherlock may have with John, he knows that Sherlock has never been anything but responsible and deliberate in his care of Rosie. But what about the days where Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson or Molly or the rare occasions John has gotten another sitter? Does Sherlock use it as a stress relief when he can't get an experiment to go right Does he just sit back in his kitchen chair, push away from the microscope, and slide a hand down into his pajama bottoms? Stroke himself to completion and let the bliss of it clear out his mind? Maybe when he needs a break in a case; John can picture that being the most likely. When Sherlock's brain becomes a teaming hive of noise and threads of leads that won't come together, John can imagine him stripping out of his clothing and throwing himself down in his chair, maybe draping one slender leg over the arm of it so that he can use a loose fist around his cock and long fingers inside himself ….

Does he ever just use his hand on his cock or does he always use a toy? His fingers? Something else entirely? John proceeds to see all these things on a loop … Sherlock as he was on the bed this morning, working a toy in his arse as he strokes himself. Sherlock dripping wet in the shower and striping the wall with his come. Sherlock leaning back against the kitchen counter and fisting his cock inside the folds of his dressing gown. Sherlock splayed over his chair, fucking up into his hand as he impales himself on his fingers. Sherlock laid out face down on the sofa, arse raised up a bit as he thrusts against the cushions. It drives John bloody mad all day long. He then discovers that his subconscious mind is unbelievably cruel and demands attention be paid to just how long it's been since he's gotten laid, because when John's brain exhausts all the possible ways Sherlock could be wanking himself into oblivion while John isn't there, he starts picturing the two of them shagging in every possible variation John knows of that two men can fuck. And as it turns out, John is far more knowledgeable than he realized about gay sex.

He's at the point where every single thing someone says to him or does in front of him for the remainder of the day triggers some fantasy of Sherlock. The woman describing the symptoms of what might be strep throat makes him picture Sherlock on his knees between John's legs as he sits low in his armchair, fisting a hand in Sherlock's curls as the detective swallows his cock. The avid cyclist with the herniated muscle in his groin has John picturing himself perched on the edge of their sofa, clutching the plush cheeks of Sherlock's arse and spreading him apart, one of the detective's hands grasping the back rail of the couch behind John's head and the other splayed on the wall as Sherlock rides his cock. A young teacher needs a wicked splinter removed from the back of her thigh, a product of playing on the school playground with one of her grammar school students. As she bends over the exam table and lifts her skirt, chattering away about her students in an effort to distract herself while John works, John has to physically shake his head to banish an image of Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, a hand to the back of his neck as he comes untouched from John fucking him roughly from behind. His hands shake a bit after he puts a plaster over the wound and wishes the teacher a good afternoon.

When the last patient of the day tells him what's wrong, John barely resists the impulse to shout and climb out of his own skin. A sandy-haired boy of no more than twenty or so blushes and refuses to sit when John greets him. He drops his eyes to the floor and explains in a hushed voice that he's too embarrassed to his normal GP on account of the nature of his ailment. After a few moments of stammering, John finally pries it out of him with a bit of gentle prodding: his boyfriend had been a bit rougher than he's used to during sex the previous night and he'd been very sore and stinging this morning. John swears under his breath.

Using the most gentle and professional tone he can, he explains about the importance of thorough and careful preparation before anal sex, the possibility of tears and such, and then praises him for coming in to see a doctor right away if he suspected there might be something amiss, hoping that it might ease some of his embarrassment and encourage good sex practices in the future. The boy blushes the entire time, resolutely staring at the floor, but nods and occasionally murmurs a few things that show he's paying attention. John turns his back to put on gloves as the boy drops his trousers and pants before laying down on the exam table. He jumps as John prods gently here and there but more from surprise than pain, as far as John can see.

"Just so I know, Alex," John says, "have you been sexually active before or was this a totally new experience?"

"I—" Alex turns his face towards the other side of the room before answering. "Just a few times. Not all that much but … I mean, it isn't completely new."

"Okay. Well, just make sure that you're communicating with your boyfriend about this, okay? If he was a bit too rough, you'll want to make sure that you tell him so that you two can avoid going too far next time. I'm sure he wouldn't want to hurt you and it'll be a much better experience for both of you in the long run."

"Oh, we … yes, okay."

John hums thoughtfully at the response. Everything about the boy's tone says that while he's comfortable enough to talk to John, a doctor and total stranger, the chances that he's going to be comfortable enough to speak to his partner seem slim.

"Alex, you do know that this is nothing to be ashamed of, don't you? The sex but also learning where your boundaries are. It's something everybody learns, no matter who they are and no matter who their partner is."

The boy is silent. John checks for a few more warning signs but based on what he can see, poor Alex is just a victim of inadequate or rushed preparation and isn't all that much worse for wear.

"I mean it. You've nothing to be embarrassed about, all right?"

He mumbles a response that John doesn't catch. A few twitches of his muscles are Alex's only response as John applies a bit of antibiotic ointment with a numbing agent and then he allows Alex a little privacy to put his trousers back on.

"Alex, hang on a minute," John calls to the boy before he can dash out the door. He gestures to the chair opposite him.

The young man perches at the edge of the seat looking like he wants to melt into the floor. The boy's light blue eyes dart from John's hands folded on his knee to the framed picture of Mary and Rosie that he keeps on his desk. It takes until the third or fourth glance at his hands for John to realize that Alex is staring at his wedding ring – which, in all honestly, John had forgotten was still on his finger nearly a year and a half after Mary's death. Alex bounces between John's ring and the sunny picture of wife and child. Ah. John had planned another little talk about empowerment and control of one's sexual destiny but something completely different tumbles out of his mouth.

"Tell me about your boyfriend."

Alex's eyebrows shoot up. His eyes sparkle with happiness as he gives a few halting details – he's called Oscar, tall, dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, sharp as a tack and studying to be a barrister – clearly Alex is proud of this young man.

"We've … erm," Alex stumbles, "only had sex just the once before last night, you see. So I guess that's why … I mean, he's a lot bigger than me – taller, I mean! –" Alex bleats out, turning beat red, "—and he was very keen on it, so I don't think he realized he was being a bit rough when he was behind me and …." Alex trails into silence for a long moment.

He doesn't try to picture it (the boy is half his age after all) but the image slips into his head unbidden. Almost immediately, the mental picture becomes John and Sherlock. Suddenly he's coming up behind Sherlock, pushing him down to all fours, thrusting into him with little warning and roughly fucking him until—

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," Alex says in a rush, shaking John from his musing.

"Sorry?" John repeats, dumbfounded.

Alex nods and goes back to staring at John's hands.

"Sorry you have to … I mean, it must be awkward," Alex rolls his eyes away and they fill a bit. "Having to patch up the bum of some poof who can't even control his own—"

"Hey," John says sternly and puts a hand on the boy's forearm. "Don't talk like that. First of all, as a doctor, it's my responsibility and my _honor_ to treat anyone who puts their trust in me to help them. Secondly, nobody gets sex completely right when they're new at it and anyone who says they have is an enormous liar."

John says it with such thick sarcasm that it teases a watery chuckle out of Alex's sniffle.

"And you're not just 'some poof'. You're clearly a bright young man with a boyfriend to be proud of."

Alex just nods and looks away again. John's not at all sure why it occurs to him to say the words but out they come.

"Would you like to see a picture of my boyfriend?"

The blue eyes fix on him keen as lasers and Alex's expression goes slack with surprise. And then the eyes get wide as saucers and flick back towards the picture of Mary and Rosie.

"Oh, yeah," John says as casually as he can manage, "that's my daughter and her mum," he words it this way very deliberately and refuses to examine why he avoids using the word 'wife', "—but here let me show you—"

John digs in his trouser pocket and unearths his mobile, thumbing through the gallery for a moment until he lands on the picture he wants. A few months ago after a case, he'd been possessed of a silly mood and took a snap of Sherlock just after his triumphant Great Reveal. As he was winding his scarf back around his neck, Sherlock's eyes had caught John's and he'd winked theatrically. Somehow, John had managed to catch him at the perfect moment: dark curls swirling around his face, cheeks flushed, lips turned up in a quirked grin, eyes dancing with mischief, and his fingers just pulling the blue wool tight at his throat. If any single photograph can distill the essence of the Sherlock that John has fallen in love with, this is it. John turns the phone towards Alex and watches, gratified, as his mouth drops open in a comically large O-shape.

"Wow."

John chuckles. "Yep."

Alex snatches up the phone, glancing from Sherlock to John and back. "He's _divine_."

Another laugh bubbles up from John's belly. "Yeah, shame that he's well aware of it. And a proper genius, too. Most brilliant, amazing man I've ever met. No shame in being proud of that, right?"

John's smile is easy but there's just enough of a leading edge to his voice. Alex smiles and nods as he hands the phone back.

"Thanks again, Dr. Watson," he says sincerely, pretending not to notice as John stuffs a few condoms and packets of lube in the boy's rucksack before handing it back to him.

"You're welcome. And Alex: take care of yourself. And your boyfriend."

"You as well," Alex says as he heads out the door of the exam room. He pokes his head back in to give just the hint of a cheeky smile. "Keep your eyes on your one, yeah? He looks like he's trouble."

With a smirk, John confirms, "That's my favorite part about him."

* * *

John intentionally takes the tube home from the clinic because he knows he'll need the long ride back towards Baker Street to collect himself before seeing Sherlock this evening. Firstly because he knows that if he reacts too obviously, he may inadvertently shame Sherlock for doing something perfectly normal and healthy (well, normal for average blokes, anyway): he just caught John by surprise is all, because John had no bloody idea that Sherlock even did that sort of thing. Which, he supposes, was the whole point of him doing it when John isn't there. Privacy. Who even knew that a man who would swan around Buckingham Palace in a bed sheet understood privacy? Just another reason for John to stay calm. The other reason that John needs to stay calm, of course, is that his head has been a non-stop whirlwind of pornographic scenarios involving his same-sex friend that John's only just realized he's in love with and who, until eight and a half hours ago, he believed to be completely asexual. Oh God, oh Christ, if he doesn't get himself together, Sherlock will suss it out within seconds of John walking in the flat and who knows how Sherlock would react. However far Sherlock had come as far as sentiment is concerned, he's never shown anything but disdain for anything resembling a desire for sex. Although … the detective certainly appeared fairly sex-positive this morning. Eager, even, with his flushed face and gasping mouth, thighs trembling—

 _No,_ _ **no!**_ John scolds himself. Definitely not the sort of thing you think about surrounded by commuters while on the tube. Hard not to think about it, though. The talk he'd had with that last patient, Alex, had stuck with him. The boy had looked so mortified, as if embarrassed about his entire being just as a by-product of admitting to participating in gay sex let alone enjoying it. John had wondered, in that moment, if that's how Harry had felt when she'd first known herself and come out. He doubts it; Harry had been intentionally, even excessively, brash when discussing and detailing her preferences in those days. John wonders now if it was bravado to cover up something more like Alex's feelings. It made him want to help the young man in whatever way he could. And if John's completely honest, he'd wanted to test out the words on his tongue, see how they felt in his mouth, calling Sherlock his boyfriend.

The memories of tending to the aftermath of Alex's rather vigorous activities with his partner – and their basic similarities to John and Sherlock – allows a lurid vision to bloom in John's mind that differ from all the other images he'd pictured so far. Perhaps because of the method of Sherlock's masturbation this morning, all of John's mental wanderings so far portray Sherlock as breathlessly lustful but always submissive to John, eagerly welcoming John fucking him regardless of whether Sherlock was technically on the top or bottom. With Alex, though, the similarities were too obvious to miss – sandy-haired and blue-eyed; gushing on about his tall, dark-haired, sharp-minded boyfriend who'd been keen to the point of roughness – so his mind circles around and suddenly John's unable to stop a vision of himself kneeling on Sherlock's stark white sheets with his legs spread, clutching the headboard, hands framed by Sherlock's own. As he sits quietly in the corner of a tube compartment, he imagines the detective's slender frame bracketing his own, a litany of filthy praise dropping from those wicked lips as the muscles in his hips work, pounding himself into John, pulling groans that John can nearly feel tearing themselves from his mouth….

John clears his throat and pulls his jacket over his lap when he realizes that he's got another erection blossoming with embarrassing speed in response to his train of thought. Jesus, when did that sort of thing even become something that appealed to him? However confident he is that he has never been attracted to any other man enough to even be a blip on the radar, his blood sings in his veins just thinking about shagging Sherlock. And now, now he's even getting worked up thinking about _being fucked._ He's never before found the idea of being penetrated the remotest bit arousing – and he'd had more than one adventurous girlfriend who'd offered fingers or toys – but God, his heart races just thinking about it. Some weak protest echoes in the back of his head that he's not gay (really, he _isn't_ ) but that seems to matter less and less with every passing second in the wake of what he's starting to feel for the world's only consulting detective. Christ, maybe Mary was right. Maybe Sherlock really is the exception to … everything.

* * *

"Sherlock, we—"

"Two hours and eleven minutes. I'm impressed, John; really I am."

His flatmate straightens in his armchair, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock's from his former gaze down at his hands clasped between his knees.

"We—what? Impressed with what?"

Sherlock makes a show of gazing at his watch and then back at John. "Two hours and eleven minutes since you walked in the door and fifty-three minutes after dinner. I must admit, your restraint really has improved dramatically. That's thirty-seven minutes longer than I expected, so well done, John."

John's face changes from one of confusion to the more predictable expression of frustration. "What are you on about?"

The detective crosses his right leg over his left and leans back in his chair, dropping his hands to his lap and folding his fingers together, a picture of nonchalance despite the tension that threatens to break through any minute. Extremely unlikely that John will notice, though, which is the entire point of the charade. "You want to talk about this morning."

"I … yeah," John admits; his posture goes from straight to stiff in moments. "Is that all right?"

Sherlock shrugs insouciantly but even John will see the tightness in the gesture. "I suppose it was inevitable."

"Well, you can hardly blame me for being … surprised," John says in a rush, his cheeks tinging pink. "After seven years of you ignoring or actively dismissing anything that has to do with sex, you can understand why I would think you had no interest in sex—"

"No interest in sex _with other people_ ," Sherlock corrects. "An incredibly important distinction, John."

John sits back and mirrors Sherlock's cross-legged position, although Sherlock's fairly certain it is an unconscious move. "Ah. DIY, then." John smirks at his own joke which fizzles a bit when Sherlock merely shrugs. "So, you're not …." He trails off as he visually scrambles for the appropriate term. "… active?"

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Neither are you; does that mean you're not interested either?"

John visibly startles at this, as if he only just realizes that he's not sexually active and hasn't been for some time. "Not at all. But you've just said—"

"I dislike assumptions, John," Sherlock cuts in quickly. "Gross generalizations seldom apply to me. Labels exist simply to help define the world for less able minds and only serve to jam people like me into a box that rarely fits."

John ponders this for a moment then nods. "So would you—is it all right if—do you mind?"

"I understand why you have questions, John. You may as well ask," Sherlock replies in a carefully neutral voice.

"Well, it's not as if you can't just _read_ my sexual history off of me," John says with a small smile. "Bit unbalanced."

"Mmmm," Sherlock agrees, smirking. "Turnabout is fair play, I suppose."

"As long as you're—"

" _John_ ," Sherlock remonstrates and makes a 'get on with it' gesture with one hand.

"So," John starts, clearly choosing where to begin. "Do you do that a lot?"

Sherlock shrugs. "'A lot' is relative, John. Once a week would be a lot for some men; not nearly enough for others. At least once a day would be a lot for me but if the length of your morning showers are anything to go by when compared to showers taken at other times of day—"

"Point taken," John cuts him off. "So where on that spectrum do you fall?"

"Is this professional curiosity, Dr. Watson, or personal?"

John shrugs, not the least bit self-conscious apparently. "Both, I guess. You've just never given any indication of _any_ sexual behavior, so I'm just … curious."

Sherlock can feel a blush rise up but he answers as best he can. "I don't really have an answer you'll find satisfying, I think. It varies. I've certainly done it more frequently since you've moved back in." He says it without thinking so he startles a bit at the astonished look that graces John's face. Before the doctor can make any assumptions, Sherlock quickly amends, "Common animal behavior, John; normal response to introducing another sexually mature adult into a confined 'herd'."

Strictly speaking, Sherlock isn't certain that's correct and he silently prays that John will let it pass. He does, but not without a slight narrowing of his eyes that clearly telegraphs his suspicions.

"You do it when I'm not here then, obviously."  
"Obviously," Sherlock confirms. He sighs heavily and then spreads his hands. "Contrary to what most people would think …." He finds he has to stop to clear his throat. "I may not careen after sexual encounters the way most people do, but I am human, John."

"Of course you are," his friend replies softly.

"I have the same," Sherlock flounders for a word and hates it, "needs as any other man. It is a biological imperative; I meet the need when it needs to be met."

John's flush reappears as he steels himself to ask his next question. Interesting.

"So … you're gay?"

Not unexpected but a question he'd fervently hoped to avoid. However much he tries to hide it, John is deeply discomfited by the question but seems incapable of quashing his curiosity. Even though he knows how this is going to go, Sherlock tries to deflect through feigned ignorance.

"You can gauge sexual preference by a single instance of observed masturbation?"

John shifts in his chair. "Well, no, but—"

"So then why would you make that assumption?"

John shifts and settles again. "You were … using a toy."

Sherlock stares back flatly. "Are you suggesting that only gay men enjoy the sensation of penetration? Aside from being factually unsupportable – statistically speaking, more heterosexuals engage in anal sex than homosexual men—"

"Jesus, Sherlock—"

"—that's also a remarkably – what's the term? – _vanilla_ outlook, John. I'm surprised at you."

"It was shaped like a _cock_ , Sherlock," John points out.

Sherlock shrugs again. "Perhaps I chose it because it was convenient. Perhaps I chose it at random. Perhaps it was simply on sale that day."

Scoffing loudly, John stares him down. "You know, Sherlock, just because I'm not as observant as you are doesn't mean I don't see and it doesn't mean I don't understand you."

He can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Sherlock reclines and spreads his hands wide. "Astonish me."

John rolls his eyes. "First of all, a man who faffs around crime scenes in Spencer Hart and a coat that costs more than a month's rent wouldn't choose _socks_ simply because they were on sale, let alone something he was going to put up his bum."

Sherlock snorts loudly and John jumps a bit, as if he's only just realized what he's said.

"Secondly," John continues in a sharp tone after clearing his throat, "the man I've known all this time would never choose something like this at random. You're a scientist and a detective, you wouldn't choose a potentially inadequate tool for a job. Moreover," John says thoughtfully, sitting back as if giving the matter due consideration, "a man who refers to any part of sex simply as a 'biological imperative' isn't going to base things on chance or convenience. You," John sits up suddenly and points directly at Sherlock's chest; he smiles, "you, Sherlock Holmes, would want to make sure that if you have to 'meet the need' that you did it as quickly and efficiently as possible, with the best possible results. No, you wouldn't choose … that," John waves towards Sherlock's bedroom vaguely, "unless it was exactly what you wanted. You would choose that _specific_ toy because something – or everything – about it would arouse you enough that you knew it would make you come the hardest and the fastest."

Sherlock's heart thunders in his chest and it's all he can do to keep a straight face that isn't crimson. Just hearing John say such things makes his pulse race and pound at his ear drums.

"You don't say," Sherlock answers, thankful that his voice remains mostly steady.

"I do," John says smugly. "Because I know you, Sherlock. If you chose that particular thing, you chose it _because_ it's shaped like a cock, not in spite of it. And _certainly_ not at random. And yeah, okay, maybe it's a gross generalization to say that _only_ gay men would be aroused at the idea of having something that looks like a cock penetrate them, but as Mycroft would say, 'balance of probability.'"

"Interesting."

Now John raises an eyebrow. "Well, go on, tell me: how'd I do?"

Sherlock grins easily. "Surprisingly well."

John returns the smile. "Did I miss anything?"

"A few things," the detective responds. "But those details are … private." Sherlock finds he has to clear his throat again.

"Right," John says and drops his gaze to his lap. "Right. Of course. Sorry, didn't mean to … overstep. Although if I'm even mostly right about why you chose what you chose, that does leave some questions about why you were so enamored with Irene Adler. Unless she—"

Sherlock pins John back with a withering glare. "Oh for God's sake, are you on about 'High Wycombe' again? Honestly, John, _you_ seem more obsessed with her than I ever was."

"I am not!" he retorts hotly. "I thought she was a bloody nuisance and spent most of the time wanting to give her a good slap."

"No use," Sherlock rejoins, "she'd probably enjoy it."

"I just didn't like—she was so bloody _smug_ —"

"She did it to wind you up, John. It was ridiculously easy to do."

"—and you just seemed so … Jesus, you even babbled when she said brainy was sexy! _You_ , of all people. _Babbled!"_

"Christ, John, she was clever! She was new and interesting. I found her intriguing and yes, I was a bit impressed. But I was never _in love_ with her," he can't help but spit the phrase, "and I _certainly_ wasn't _attracted_ —"

"Oh come on, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were a teenager with his first crush!"

"She's a lesbian!" Sherlock yells. "She told you herself! Honestly, John, I think you've said 'not gay' so often you've lost all concept of the meaning of the word. She. Is. _Gay."_

"And?!" John sneers.

" _And so am I!"_ Sherlock thunders back.

If Sherlock had actually _intended_ to make that declaration, he'd be thoroughly gratified at John's stunned silence in the wake of his words. Which, really, is completely ridiculous seeing as how John speculating this very fact is what started this whole line of discussion. And yet, here the doctor sits, flabbergasted at having the words actually spoken.

"Oh," is all John manages to say.

"Yes, _oh_ ," Sherlock spits.

John stares at him until Sherlock feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. It's the same feeling that he used to get when he was gasping for another fix.

When John's voice comes, it's achingly soft. "Why didn't you just say so? I mean, all that time ago… in Angelo's, even, that first night. You could have said. I wouldn't have minded one way or the other. Why didn't you just say?"

Sherlock's fingers come up to massage the bridge of his nose; he can feel a headache building in the tension just under his fingertips. "Because I'm not even sure that is the right term for me."

Above his fingers, Sherlock watches John slowly lean forward and prop his elbows on his knees. His gaze rakes over Sherlock's face and it feels tender, even if Sherlock can't quite meet his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters." John's voice stays quiet but that earnest firmness that is so quintessentially _John_ sneaks in and Sherlock is powerless to resist, even if he has to try.

"Why? Why does it matter to you, John? After seven years of silence on the matter, why should my sexuality suddenly be so important to you?"

Sherlock finally brings his gaze up to John's face and he feels wrong-footed in that he has no idea what to make of the mixture of emotions chasing across John's face. He's not even sure he can name them all.

"Because I care about you, Sherlock. Jesus, you're my best friend. You're the person I love most in the world, apart from my daughter. I want to understand. So explain it to me."

"Must I?"

"Please."

A heavy exhalation leaves his lips. Sherlock pulls his legs up from the floor and wraps his arms around them, curls into himself; he's well aware of what the posture will read as but he feels safer this way. He has to look away from John as he speaks so he studies the knees of his trousers.

"You once called me the most human human being you'd ever met, John. I feel … need the same as anyone else does but desire and attraction? I just … don't feel it. Well, not _never—_ " Sherlock says in answer to the half-formed question on John's lips, "but not the way most people do. Or so I gather. I don't feel attraction to an entire gender en masse, I don't feel attracted to subsets of people, I don't 'have a type', I don't walk into a pub or a supermarket or a coffee shop, see a stranger and feel attracted to them the way so-called normal people would, John. I just … don't feel those things that way."

"Okay," John says slowly. "How _do_ you feel those things?"

"It's hard to explain," Sherlock hedges.

"Try." John is relentless. It makes Sherlock smile in spite of himself.

"I feel … pulled, sometimes. To the person first. Minds. Hearts, if that's what you want to call it. I don't … if I feel drawn to the _person_ , sometimes – not often, but sometimes – it deepens into an appreciation for the body."

John nods. "So you only ever feel attracted to people you already care for?"

Sherlock nods in return, shrugs as much as he can without loosening his grip on his calves. "But it happens so rarely that it's hardly worth speaking about. If forced to put a label on it, I suppose 'gay' is as good as any because I've only ever felt … _drawn_ to men. But … very rarely. I typically have no interest in sex with other people because I don't typically feel attracted to other people. For the most part, any interest in sex is merely a byproduct of being a sexually-mature adult and rarely involves a desire for another person."

"Okay," John says, mulling it over. "Then you've never had any interest in pursuing something with any of the men you've ever been attracted to in the past, when you do feel drawn?"

Sherlock gives a mirthless chuckle. "You've met me, John; how many men do you believe returned my interest?"

John's laugh isn't much more sincere. "Many more than you thought, I bet."

Sherlock snaps his gaze up to John but now he won't meet Sherlock's eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

Scoffing, John replies, "Come on, Sherlock, I've seen you use your appearance, your sexuality, as a tool before. Mostly on women involved with cases, but I've also seen you use it on Molly before. You _know_ you're good-looking, you know you have sex appeal. You choose not to engage it in a practical sense and that's fine but that doesn't mean that those qualities wouldn't transfer over to men. You could pull if you wanted to, you just don't."

"It doesn't matter anyway. I've already said, I only ever feel sexual interest when I'm already interested in the _person_ and you know how deadly dull most people are. Besides, because I experience attraction and desire so rarely, the feeling of being attracted to someone … for me, it's very unsettling, John. Bewildering, even. Easier to simply 'meet the need' on my own than pursue it."

John regards him with a gaze that suddenly seems far too keen. "And now?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "What?"

"Everything you've said about not wanting to pursue sex is in the past, but all that about how you feel attraction is in present tense. Feel, not felt. You _experience_ it rarely, it's unsettl _ing_ , bewilder _ing_. Not you _were_ bewildered. Bewilder _ing_. Present tense. And you said you _typically_ have no interest in sex with other people, which implies that right now is the exception. So there's … there's a man you feel that way about right now?"

If Sherlock hadn't been so surprised, he may have been able to rein in his startled response but he knows John sees it, the panic in his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," he answers, too quickly. "Of course there isn't."

"You're lying," John says before Sherlock has even finished the denial. "I can see it in your face."

"John—"

"I thought we weren't going to lie to each other anymore, Sherlock."

"John, _please_ ," Sherlock implores; his voice sounds strangled. "Given everything I've told you this evening, don't you see how much more difficult that question is than any base discussion of masturbation? How that particular fact might be my most private confession, given where attraction comes from for me?"

John gapes at him for a few seconds before he recovers and his face is a calm mask of compassion again. "You're right; I'm sorry. Not my business."

Sherlock squirms in his chair. "It's not that I don't want to be honest with you, John—"

"No, you're right. You've already let me poke my nose in farther than I should have."

"John—"

The doctor leaves his chair then and, to Sherlock's surprise, kneels in front of the leather armchair to place his hands on Sherlock's where they clutch at his knees. Sherlock can feel how wide and panicked his eyes are, how tightly he grips his shins, how stiff his shoulders, but John's palms are warm, heavy, comforting on the backs of his hands, his thumbs gently circling as he speaks in a hushed tone.

"I meant what I said that first night, you know. It's fine, Sherlock. _You're_ fine, just as you are. Whatever you are."

Sherlock's mouth drops open. His jaw works as he tries to cobble together something to say, but nothing comes out. Nothing he can think of seems enough. John recovers much faster than Sherlock, though. He hauls himself to his feet, gently releasing his grip on Sherlock's hands. Just the tips of the fingers on John's left hand skim up from Sherlock's hand, over his wrist, up his arm and lift off near his shoulder. John's fingers curl open in the air next to Sherlock's cheek but when Sherlock gazes up into John's face, tilting his head quizzically, the fingers clench shut again, flex a few times in the air, and then dart away. Sherlock can't decide if he's disappointed.

"You know what?" John says, his tone aiming for bracing but coming out stilted. "I think we both need a bit of time to digest everything from tonight. I'm going to go down and get Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and take her for a little ramble around Regent's Park before it gets dark. Will you … be all right?"

His lips turn up and he tries to think of something sarcastic to say. His brain abandons him, so he just gives a forced smile and nods. "Fine, John. I'll be fine. Don't forget Rosie's slicker; it's going to rain before nightfall."

John chuffs a laugh but snatches the little pink raincoat from the hook outside the door without further comment and stuffs it into the pocket of the pushchair. Once he shrugs on his own jacket, John casts his eyes back to Sherlock, still curled in his chair, and seems to want to say something. In the end, he just gives Sherlock an unreadable look and a nod before assuring the detective that he'll be home before dark.

* * *

John parks himself and Rosie on a bench at the far side of the Triton Fountain and stares up at the structure as if the bronze god and his attendant mermaids will have all the answers. One of them may as well, because John bloody well doesn't. He massages at his forehead with one hand and holds Rosie firm on his knee with the other, swaying her side to side just a bit as Rosie babbles some nonsense or other. He presses his cheek to the top of her head, breathes deep, and tries to focus.

"What in the hell am I going to do, love?" he murmurs to her. "Sorry about the language but reasonably sure you're not going to repeat it just yet. Daddy's just … confused. He doesn't know what to do."

"Dada!" Rosie murmurs into his cheek. The little girl shifts beneath him so he moves to the side, peering into the small face which wrinkles in concentration. Eventually, she reaches out and pats his cheek with a small, bemittened hand. "Dada, no sad."

John gives an unsteady chuckle and kisses her chubby cheek. "I don't like being sad either, my love, but it seems to be my lot in life."

Rosie pats his cheek again and John turns her to face him completely. With his daughter straddling his knee, gazing up into his face with a mixture of trust and concern, his life feels far simpler than it did a half hour ago inside Baker Street.

"I'm very confused, love. You see, Daddy loves you very much and he," John stumbles, but his daughter barely manages three words at a time so what harm can it do to say it, "loves Sherlock very much. But Daddy isn't sure if Sherlock loves him back. Probably not. Although…."

He looks up at the statue again, thinking of the panic on Sherlock's face when John asked if there was a man whom he _currently_ felt attracted. Maybe it's arrogant of John to just assume that it would be him, but with Sherlock, who else would it be?

"Maybe Sherlock does feel the same. What do you think? Do you think Sherlock loves Daddy?" he directs at the little girl currently buzzing her lips and patting her hands together.

To his very great surprise, Rosie actually appears to consider the question. After a moment, she reaches out to pat John's lips with her fist.

"Dada. Luff."

"I love you too, darling," he says with a smile.

Rosie grimaces at him and pats her hand against his mouth again. "Dada kiss."

John leans forward and gives her a peck on the lips which the little girl returns but flaps her arms indignantly.

"No!" she says vehemently. The exasperation on her face makes him chuckle aloud; it's the exact same expression Mary would give him when she thought he was being particularly dense about something. "No, kiss. _Kiss._ "

"I already gave you a kiss, Rosie." John's brows furrow as she makes a noise of extreme annoyance.

"Dada _kiss_. Sock," Rosie says deliberately.

"Kiss … your sock?" John questions, baffled.

" _Sock_ ," Rosie groans. She waves one arm behind her. " _Kiss sock,_ Dada."

John's eyebrows wing up because that time, the word 'sock' may have had a bit of an 'h' in it.

"You mean … Sherlock? Were you trying to say 'Sherlock'?"

Rosie nearly rolls her eyes at him and pats her hand against his lips again. "Daddy _kiss Sheh-ock._ "

His stomach flips over and John realizes that perhaps he doesn't give his daughter anywhere near enough credit for her development. "You want me to … kiss Sherlock?"

The muffled thump of Rosie's hands clapping together echoes in John's ears. She's clearly pleased with herself as she regards his face, tapping his lips once more for emphasis.

"Kiss. Shock," she says once more. Then, "Spehmin."

This draws a loud chuckle out of John despite the wobbly feeling in his gut. "Yes, I suppose kissing Sherlock would be quite an experiment."

Although he's a bit ashamed that he's avoiding this conversation with a not-quite-two-year-old, John hitches her up from his lap and settles her back into the pushchair.

"Come on, love, we'd better go home. Too chilly to stay out long."

" _Kiss_ , Daddy. Luff."

John squats down in front of her chair and secures her coat and mittens before pressing her stuffed tiger into her grip. "Now listen, young lady, that's private and you'd better keep it to yourself."

Rosie rolls her eyes and this time, the expression is so very Sherlock.

"That's all I need," John mutters as he wheels them towards home. " _Two_ of him."

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft, as much as I _loathe_ to admit this, I find myself in need of—why are you out of breath?"

Sherlock hears shuffling on the other end of the line and a few unsteady breaths.

"I'm not," his brother says far too quickly.

"You _are_ ," Sherlock confirms with certainty. "You're practically panting. We both know it isn't exercise like last time, you've gained three pounds since August—"

"I haven't—"

"Please, Mycroft, you only ever wear the blue chalk-stripe suit that you had on last Tuesday when you're feeling insecure about your weight. So if it isn't the treadmill, what—" The riffling noise happens again and this time, Sherlock is positive what the noise is. Bed sheets. His lips turn up at the edges. "Mycroft, have you decided to take up fishing lately?"

He practically _hears_ his brother's posture go rigid. Oh, this is going to be too good.

"Fishing? Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, I'm not exactly a sportsman. Now if you would—"

"Develop a particular affinity for _goldfish_ , perhaps?" Sherlock says, his voice thick with humor and sarcasm.

The noise on the other side of the phone deadens completely.

"I don't know what you—"

"You're having sex!" A bit juvenile of him to practically shout it that way, but the idea is so preposterous that it merits the reaction, he thinks.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft says huffily. He doesn't deny it, though.

"You _are_. You're _having sex_. Or, rather, you've just finished having sex," Sherlock amends and then pulls a face. "Good Lord, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Oh, grow up, Sherlock, for God's sake," his brother snaps and switches the phone to his other ear. "You were calling because you need a favor, which is a far more amusing topic for me. Let's get back to that."

"Please tell me that you didn't blackmail the poor soul into your bed, Mycroft. That's beneath you. And if that poor person has been beneath you, no amount of money would be enough."

" _Sherlock_."

"Ugh, just the thought—"

A gusty sigh from Mycroft. "I'm hanging up now."

"Wait!" Sherlock protests and tries to check his tone. "I … need a favor."

"So you've said. I'm waiting to hear what the request in question is before I agree to honor it."

"Of course you'll honor it," Sherlock says, waving a hand as he begins to stalk around the sitting room. "You always do. That's why I call you."

"How very flattering," Mycroft answers flatly. "What is the favor, Sherlock?"

He pauses a moment in front of his arm chair, fingers tapping lightly on the neck of the violin laid across its seat, before he resumes pacing the living room. "I need a case."

"A case? Hardly the sort of thing you need to call me for, brother mine. You seem to do well enough through the Yard and your little blog."

Sherlock resists the urge to grind his teeth at the phrase 'little blog' which has generated the interest of actual royalty before, not to mention saved his brother's ample arse in the last year. "I've already checked with Lestrade; he doesn't have anything that meets my needs and neither does the website."

"What needs, precisely, would those be?"

Sherlock nearly chuckles; he can hear Mycroft shifting the bedsheets up to cover his chest, as if the prim gesture somehow gives him the high ground.

"Something relatively simple and free of danger so we don't get hurt, but something out of London. Preferably far enough away that we won't be able to return to London until the next day."

Sherlock tries to say the last part of it as casually as he can, hoping that Mycroft won't latch onto that particular detail.

No such luck, of course. "You want me to give you a reason to share overnight accommodations with John?"

Sherlock tries to keep his face still. "John's been acting odd lately. It's … an experiment."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says quietly, the note of pity in his voice nearly intolerable. "Are you sure that's wise, given how much you have to lose if this goes poorly?"

"I can handle myself, Mycroft. And John. So I'll thank you to keep your nose out of it," he says with as much dignity as he can muster.

"Sherlock—"

"Just find me a case, Mycroft; I know you can."  
"Sherlock, I'm only trying to—"

There is a tremendous amount of rustling, hushed angry whispers, and a soft, "absolutely not!" from his brother before some disturbance against the mouthpiece of Mycroft's phone.

A voice on the other end of the phone that is distinctly _Not Mycroft_ follows after a light clearing of the throat. "Mr. Holmes, good evening. I believe I have just the thing for you. I'll be in touch with details from my office tomorrow before lunch."

Sherlock screeches to a halt in the doorway to the kitchen, blinking at least twelve times while staring ahead into space, before he can formulate a response. "Lady Smallwood," Sherlock answers, his voice as even as he can manage. "What an … unexpected pleasure to hear from you this evening."

He hears her give a small, throaty chuckle. "Yes, I'd imagine. I have a case for you that ought to do just nicely. I was going to send one of my people, but if you need the excuse, it's yours. Out in Dursley, so a good few hours away and if you leave around tea time tomorrow, it'll give you a good reason to stay the night. Something more admin than chasing, I'm afraid, but that sounds like just what you're looking for."

"Yes, I expect it should be. I'm in your debt," Sherlock responds, still a bit unseated.

He can hear the smile in her voice as she responds, "I'll remember that."

She shifts around a bit, throwing more indistinct noises over the receiver, before Sherlock hears a gruff grunt that is most definitely Mycroft. Sherlock shudders.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," Lady Smallwood continues with a surprisingly even tone, "I've decided to reacquaint your brother with the health benefits of 'fishing' and I think it's been just enough time that we can cast out the line again. I'll call tomorrow morning. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't bother with a "goodnight" in response, just brings the phone down from his ear and stares at it after he hears Lady Smallwood rings off. Sometime in the minute or two where Sherlock stands gaping at his mobile, the downstairs flat door opens and closes and John shuffles up the stairs, the distinctly uneven thumping gait indicating that he decided it easier to walk Rosie up the stairs and carry the chair than attempt to carry her up in it like last time. His shoulder ached for a week. Sherlock has only managed to make it as far as the sitting room by the time John and Rosie have hung up their jackets and wandered in.

John stutters to a stop when he sees Sherlock standing in the middle of the room gawping at his phone. "What's the matter?" he asks, bending to scoop up Rosie and deposit her on the couch with her tiger.

"Mycroft was having sex," Sherlock blurts out, his gaze flicking up to John's face.

John's cheeks are pink from the cool December evening and when his gaze locks with Sherlock's, the flush deepens. He doesn't look away, though. John flinches comically when Sherlock's sentence sinks in.

"Mycroft? Having sex? God, I hope not while you were on the phone with him."

Sherlock pulls a face that makes John chuckle and deposits his mobile in his pocket. "Just finished, I think. Grotesque."

"Mycroft," John says again as if he may have misheard. "Having _sex_."

"Mmmm," Sherlock confirms. "Terrifying, isn't it?"

"Mycroft _having sex_ ," John says again and thumps down in his chair. "With another person?"

Sherlock smirks and shrugs. "So it would seem."

"A live, human person?"

"A _woman_ , no less," Sherlock amends, smirking at John's bewilderment.

"And she was having sex with him on purpose? I mean, she was aware and consenting?"

This teases an actual laugh out of the detective. "Presumably. As a matter of fact, I gather that _she_ was the instigator, as it were, since she ended the conversation in order to … resume activities."

John wrinkles his nose in apparent disgust.

"Lady Smallwood," Sherlock says succinctly.

"Huh," John mutters. "I would have thought she'd have better taste."

They lock eyes for a moment and then burst into giggles. Rosie seems determined not to be left out, as she begins clapping her hands and laughing along with them. John jogs over to scoop her up from the couch and return to his chair, depositing the girl in his lap. Sherlock watches John run a few light fingertips over her belly, smiling as the girl squirms and giggles in response to the tickling. The doctor looks up to Sherlock, his indigo eyes merry, and he looks so … so _John_ that Sherlock has to actually clench his hands around the arms of his chair to resist the impulse to stalk over and taste the grin on John's face.

"So what did Mycroft want?" John asks before bending to blow a raspberry into Rosie's belly, smiling at the girl's shrieks of delight. "Hopefully something other than just tormenting you with the awareness of his sexual activity?"

"Yes, thank God," Sherlock returns. "I've enough mental scars as it is. He has a case for us."

John arches an eyebrow as he rights Rosie in his lap. "So, what is the case about?"

Sherlock clears his throat and gazes down at his lap. "I'm not sure, actually. Lady Smallwood actually gave me the case but she said she'd have to call me from her office tomorrow to give the details."

"That's fairly unhelpful," John mutters with a lopsided grin. "But not entirely surprising if she and Mycroft were in the middle of shag—"

"John, please," Sherlock protests dramatically, "there are impressionable young minds present. No need to warp your daughter's impression of sex by introducing a Holmes into the matter."

Oh. That's obviously the wrong thing to say because several emotions chase across John's face in the silence that follows. Sherlock puzzles at them, though, because in between the amusement and the rush of embarrassment, there is definitely fear and … disappointment? Baffling.

"I suppose that means we're not setting off straight away then," John says stiffly.

"Tea time tomorrow, I should think," Sherlock agrees, studying John's face which he now seems determined not to show Sherlock in its entirety. "Should call Molly and see if she can mind Rosie, though. The case isn't in London, so we'll need to stay the night."

Tiny specks of fear and anxiety flicker on John's face again before he caps them. Curious.

"All right," the doctor replies evenly. "I'm not at the clinic tomorrow, so why don't I stay here and take care of getting a sitter for Rosie and pack a few bags, and you can dart out to MI6 and get the details from Lady Smallwood. Will that do?"

Given that Sherlock had said that Lady Smallwood would _call_ with the details, Sherlock feels his stomach drop away with the obvious realization that John is attempting to get rid of him for the few hours before they will be going away together. Sherlock's chest tightens and he wills himself not to react visibly.

"Of course."

John stands up and pulls Rosie to his shoulder. "I should go and put her down for the night. Getting late."

Sherlock just nods. Rosie raises her hand and pats John's lips. She begins to say something but John cuts her off by pressing a kiss to her lips. His face flushes and he gives Sherlock a tight smile as he prompts Rosie, "Say goodnight, love."

"Night night," Rosie says dutifully.

"Goodnight, Rosie," Sherlock answers, smiling just a bit when the girl waves to him over John's shoulder as he climbs the stairs. He waggles his fingers in the air in response and can't help but grin when she favors him with a slightly slobbery smile in response.

* * *

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, heedless of his volume when he calls out as he enters the flat. Mrs. Hudson has daytime telly on, so the noise will hardly bother her.

"John!" he yells when he doesn't see the doctor in the sitting room. "John, the case! Where are you?"

He hears muffled laughter and splashing, then John's voice from the back of the flat. "Giving Rosie a bath, give me a minute!"

He bounds down the hall towards the loo and throws open the door. "John, I thought it was going to be a three, four at most, but it's definitely—"

Sherlock screeches to a halt, both verbally and physically, and he can feel the redness climb from his chest to his face as he stares. And stares. And he can't seem to do much more than that, despite the scrambling going on in front of him. He just clutches the knob of the loo door and blinks in surprise.

"Ah," John says and clears his throat, snatching a face flannel from the sink and draping it over his lap. "I suppose when I said 'giving Rosie a bath' I should have been clearer and said 'I'm _in_ the bath _with_ Rosie."

Sherlock can't stop staring; his whole body's been petrified where he stands. "Yes, that would have been … more accurate."

His eyes take in the scene even though his brain still has trouble processing it: Rosie in one end of the tub with streaks of blue and red paint running from her hair down across her sturdy little chest; the girl slapping her palms on the surface of the water and laughing delightedly at the columns of spray that splash around her; dappled bubbles that have mostly dissipated from the surface of the bath water; bubbles which don't manage to cover the metres ( _kilometres_ , maybe) of John's naked skin. He sits at the other end, slick from the bath and clusters of bubbles clinging to his arms and chest in odd places; rivulets of water run down from John's hair which he has pushed away from his face, dripping down his chest and back. The thread-bare yellow flannel never seemed quite so small before but now seems woefully inadequate to the task of covering John's—

The doctor clears his throat heavily and Sherlock's eyes snap up to John's face and then as far away from John's face as possible.

"Sorry," John says with a self-depreciating grin. "Didn't think you'd just invite yourself in. Stupid of me, all things considered."

He actually chuckles, which draws Sherlock's eyes back to his face. John's cheeks are pink but that could be from the steaming bath water. God, he doesn't know, he can't seem to _process_ because his brain just won't _work_. The only thing running through his mind is _John John John, naked John, naked, skin, wet, skin naked, John naked wet_ in an endless loop of babble.

"Rosie and I decided to attempt finger painting this morning and really, I should have known better," John says by way of an explanation. "Apparently she decided my khaki trousers didn't have enough color and dumped an entire cup of blue paint and half the red down the front of them before I could stop her."

"And that necessitated a bath rather than a change of clothes?"

"It soaked through my trousers and my pants," he says ruefully. "My groin was a very festive shade of lavender."

Sherlock feels his entire face flame with color. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"Yup," John chortles. "Figured if we both needed a wash, might as well consolidate my efforts. On a related note, we need a few new flannels. This was the only one that escaped the initial clean-up effort unscathed and," he gazes down at his crotch with a lopsided grin, "it may now be tainted by association."

"Oh," is all Sherlock can manage and he looks away again.

His eyes had naturally gone to the flannel in question, stuck at one corner in the trail of hair leading down from John's navel and beginning to float away with the current from Rosie's splashes. John clears his throat and the gentle noise of displaced water suggests that John has pressed a hand down to hold the cloth in place over his genitals. Sherlock gulps.

"So, the case?"

This gets Sherlock's attention. John's voice remains just the tiniest bit stiff but he's clearly angling for a casual tone and the fact that he's attempting to continue the conversation as if there's nothing odd about the situation certainly deviates from John's normal attitude about these things. While Sherlock would never go so far as to call John prudish, he's always been ruthless about boundaries when it comes to 'personal space' – insisting, rather justifiably, that Sherlock has no concept of it whatsoever – so the fact that he's openly conversing with Sherlock while naked in the bath with his daughter is peculiar to say the least. When Sherlock catches John's gaze again, he can see tension bunched in the doctor's arms but John simply readjusts the cloth at his crotch and looks up to Sherlock with a questioning expression.

"Sherlock," John prompts gently, trying not to grin when Sherlock startles a bit. "The case?"

"Yes. Case. Thought it was going to be deadly dull – the clerk at the local historical society having some issues with the local parish's paperwork to get funding for historical restoration – but it turns out that the clerk hasn't got any indication that any paperwork was filed and as a matter of fact, when prodded about it, there's no indication on any of the town's records that the building even exists. A cathedral that's stood since the thirteenth century, completely vanished from the legal consciousness of the entire town, which is fairly difficult to do with no one noticing, as the parish is still thriving and has been since the late seventeenth century." Sherlock becomes aware that he's said all of this very quickly.

"That is quite the accomplishment. Any ideas?" John asks. He fishes a cup from the side of the sink, puts a hand over Rosie's eyes, and proceeds to scoop cups full of water to pour over her head, gently scrubbing the paint from her hair with his fingertips.

Sherlock still can't seem to get his footing in the situation. John, who has always complained about Sherlock's lack of boundaries, is calmly bathing his daughter while nude and wet right in front of Sherlock, seeming not to care that when he leans forward like that, Sherlock can see all the way down the lean line of his back to the rounded cheeks of his arse, and—he has to look away. Sherlock _has_ to look away to preserve his own sanity. Whatever game John is playing has Sherlock baffled, but he'll be damned if he gives up before he figures out the end goal.

"Seven, currently."

John chuckles. "Decent start then. Why don't you—" John flicks his head in the direction of Sherlock's room, "—collect what you need and I'll finish up in here. Molly's coming round for Rosie at two, so should give us plenty of time pack a few bags before we set off."

"Yup," Sherlock says. "Right. I'll just—" he waves an arm jerkily towards his bedroom, "—I'll go pack a case. You can … finish. With Rosie. I'll just go."

John nods and Sherlock turns to leave. Just as he's crossing the threshold into his room, he hears a great splash of water that follows John getting out of the tub. A wavy outline of John's nude body appears in front of the frosted glass door which Sherlock shuts with a hasty snap.

* * *

Well, that is certainly … unexpected. John hadn't _planned_ to give Sherlock an eyeful of everything short of his cock, but as far as tests of interest are concerned, really John couldn't have planned it better. Halfway through the middle of his restless night of little sleep, it had occurred to John that perhaps he'd been going at this the wrong way. Despite how (shockingly) considerate and generous Sherlock had been to John since they moved back to Baker Street, John knows that the chances of getting Sherlock to admit anything as 'detrimental' as romantic feelings – should they exist – would be about as likely as him writing a sonnet about Mycroft's virtues or giving up experimenting on pieces of corpses. In light of Sherlock's explanations about his sexuality, however, John starts to wonder if maybe the way to get a clue as to what's going on in Sherlock's heart would be to get a definitive answer from his transport instead. Maybe it's arrogant of John to say so, but John is definitely the man that Sherlock is closest to – hadn't he said so at John's wedding? – so if he was going to feel that way about _anyone,_ wouldn't it be most likely to be John? After all, if he only feels attraction to men that he's emotionally connected to then getting some sign of attraction would more or less confirm that Sherlock feels something for John, wouldn't it? Of course, John felt a sick swoop of guilt last night at the idea of purposely goading a sexual reaction out of Sherlock in order to ransom his emotions, which is precisely why he hadn't decided to actually act on it in any firm way. The universe, it seems, is not without a sense of humor though because Fate took the decision entirely out of John's hands, and even if John _had_ decided to push something with Sherlock, he definitely wouldn't have chosen "naked in the bath with toddler" as his chosen method of seduction. Especially not for Sherlock.

He can't deny, however, that it did seem to prompt an interesting reaction. Sherlock had been stunned and embarrassed but there was an unmistakable flicker of interest in those verdigris eyes. John may be an idiot compared to Sherlock but he knows what it looks like when someone is eyeing him up and John's pretty damn certain that Sherlock was just north of openly ogling him. Good, that's definitely good. Interest, John can work with. Perhaps it's time John conducted an experiment of his own.

He gets out of the bath with little fanfare, hoisting Rosie out and wrapping her up in the little hooded towel Sherlock had bought her a few weeks ago (really, he must stop Sherlock spoiling her so ridiculously). It had seemed a bit silly at the time, but the little bobbles on top of the hood and "stinger" on the back makes Rosie look like a little bee and it sets John grinning. He tweaks one of the bobbles on her antennae and sets it bouncing, drawing gales of laughter as he buzzes at her. All of a sudden, John gets an idea … it's a bit terrible to involve his daughter in his plot and more than a bit manipulative … but he does it anyway. John gently sets Rosie on the ground, hooded towel gaping around her sturdy little naked body. She grins up at him, chubby cheeks rosy from the warm humidity of the room.

Wrapping a towel loosely around his waist, John bends over and whispers to his daughter. "Rosie love, would you like to go show Sherlock what a wonderful bee you are?"

Predictably the girl squeals in excitement and takes off into Sherlock's bedroom the instant John cracks the door, buzzing loudly as the towel flaps behind her. John waits a second before taking off after her.

"Rosie!" John cries, hoping that it sounds natural, and dashes into Sherlock's room with his towel clutched loosely in his fist.

Rosie giggles in delight as John chases her in a half-circle around the bed to where she is now 'hiding' behind Sherlock's legs as he stands at his dresser; Sherlock blinks confusedly as he twists this way and that, trying to get a look at Rosie as she ducks from one side to the other to avoid the reach of John's arm.

"Darling," he huffs, "when I said 'would you like to show Sherlock what a wonderful bee you are', I meant 'once Daddy puts his dressing gown on'."

John flicks his eyes up and catches Sherlock's gaze. The detective has the trace of a smile on his face when he looks up from where Rosie now pokes her head between his knees, buzzing ostentatiously, and the expression freezes a bit when he links eyes with John. He's still bent almost horizontal, peering at where Sherlock has bowed his knees out around Rosie's mischievous little face, and John lets his grip on his towel slacken just enough that he can feel it slide down to the top curve of his arse. Sherlock's cheeks redden as he scans John's face and even though John tips his gaze back to his daughter, he can feel the heat of Sherlock's gaze as it slides down John's damp back and over the curve of his bum. He smirks just a little when he hears a distinct throat clearing above his head but decides to put Sherlock out of his momentary misery.

"Come here, little bee," John chortles and snakes his hand through Sherlock's legs to curl around Rosie. He brushes Sherlock's calf with his arm just lightly enough that it seems like an accident as he pulls Rosie to him and lifts her up against his chest.

"Sorry," John says as he hoists Rosie up on his right hip but the jovial tone dies on his lips almost immediately.

Sherlock regards Rosie with a fond smile on his face and when he lifts his head to include John, the expression is so warm and unguarded that it staggers John. It feels as if Sherlock has cracked open a tiny window into his heart and where John expected to find a single lit match he found a bonfire. He's so overwhelmed by it that he actually moves back a step or two, his smile wobbling as he has to reposition Rosie on his hip.

"Sorry," John reiterates, trying to get back the jokey voice. "Didn't realize she'd be quite so eager to tear off before we'd either of us gotten properly dressed."

"Should have known better," Sherlock chortles then reaches out a fingertip to tap the end of Rosie's nose. "She's a shameless nudist."

"Says the man who went to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet."

Sherlock gives a thick smirk before he leans over Rosie and whispers, "You make a marvelous bumblebee. They're my favorite living thing, you know."

"Bees?" John asks, nonplussed.

"Absolutely," Sherlock confirms, grinning into Rosie's face as she starts buzzing again. "Fascinating creatures."

"Huh," John responds, amused. "Now I know your grand plan for retirement: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, scientist … beekeeper."

Sherlock smiles indulgently. "You poke fun but that sounds like an excellent plan to me. Perhaps you could learn to garden, John."

Something in John's chest tightens at the notion that Sherlock never questions the two of them growing old together. After a long moment of silence where they just seem to both be content to smile at each other, Sherlock's gaze slips again … over the curve of John's bare left shoulder, down his chest, and gets stuck at his waist where his hand still clutches his towel, but he'd gotten so distracted that his grip loosens to the point of absurdity, and the worn terrycloth hangs low. _Very_ low. At this point, most of what's keeping the towel above his cock is the fuzz of blonde hair leading down to his groin.

"Oh!" John blurts, and this time the tone of surprise isn't manufactured. He'd momentarily forgotten why he came in here in the first place. "Sorry, could you, um …?"

He gestures forward with his right arm and Sherlock takes the cue, reaching out to take Rosie from John. Out of his peripheral vision, John sees Sherlock's eyes widen to the size of saucers when John flicks the towel open just enough to give just a fleeting glance of his cock and balls before he wraps the towel securely around his waist and tucks in the ends.

"I'll just … do you mind watching her while I…?" John flaps his now-free right arm towards the loo and then upwards in the vague direction of his bedroom.

"Of course," Sherlock says and clears his throat yet again. "I'll just … I'm nearly finished packing. I'll give her a snack once I'm done."

"Thanks. I'll toss out a nappy from the loo and I'm sure there's a spare outfit in there," John nods to the diaper bag next to the spare cot they keep in Sherlock's room, "if you don't mind getting her dressed while I get myself sorted and pack our bags."

"Of course not."

John starts back to the bathroom to throw on his dressing gown and then stops. "Oh and Sherlock?"

He hears the detective hum in questioning acknowledgement as he riffles through the diaper bag for clothes for Rosie.

"I, erm," John falters a bit, "did some research last night when I couldn't sleep and I wanted you to take a look at it."

John throws a glance over his shoulder where Sherlock has turned to regard him, Rosie in one arm and a pair of tiny coveralls thrown over the other. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he says delicately, "but I'm willing to listen if you do."

"All right," the detective answers, his brows pulled together in confusion.

John hands a nappy through the door once he's slid on his dressing gown, jogging up the stairs to prepare to head out on an adventure.

* * *

Rosie gurgles from the high chair Sherlock pulls up to the desk but he stares ahead at the paper clutched in his fingers. Two pages of computer printout had been resting on his music stand, dotted with a few lines of John's cramped block script worked in here and there around the text of a website that appears to be a dictionary of some sort. At the top of the page, John has written a note to him.

 _Sherlock – Thank you for last night. For trusting me. Our conversation got me thinking: I know you don't like gross generalizations or labels. I will try never to label you – hasn't gone well for us in the past – but I read up on what we talked about and thought this one sounded like what you described._

The page is covered in definitions, clearly all explanations of terms regarding sex, sexuality, or gender identity. Sandwiched in between "cross dresser" and "drag queen" lies an entry that John has circled twice in pencil.

 ** _Demisexual –_** _typically regarded as being on the asexuality spectrum; people identifying as demisexual usually feel little to no sexual attraction or desire except to those with whom the person has already formed a close or intense emotional bond. Demisexuals can and do have the capability for forming very loving and rewarding relationships – both romantic and sexual – with partners of any gender; they simply tend not to feel physical desire to anyone outside a committed emotional relationship._

Next to the definition, John had penciled in, scribbled over, and then erased the words "Sherlock?" and "Love = sex? Sex = love?". Sherlock isn't certain what to make of this, exactly, but it does make his heartbeat roar within his chest. A thin, snaking arrow next to the circled definition wends its way down the page and draws his eyes to a note down at the bottom.

 _What I've left you here isn't an attempt to push you one way or another, just an attempt to show you I want to understand. To do better. Also, after 3 hours combing websites about sex, I am a ridiculous mix of aroused and overwhelmed._

Sherlock huffs a bit of a laugh and flips to the second page John left. It's nothing but a list of usernames and the beginnings of sentences which takes Sherlock a moment to parse as a screenshot of forum post links. Every single listing on a page of at least thirty items – with numbers at the top to indicate that this is the first page of fifty-seven – of postings by people who identify as demisexual discussing how this affects their lives. Sideways along the margin, John has written again.

 _Labels aren't always a box to jam you in. Sometimes they're an identity, something that can give you a community of like-minded people so you don't feel alone. You are_ _ **never**_ _alone. Don't forget that._

Sherlock stares at the words "you are never alone" for an indeterminate amount of time. In the back of his head he hears a loop of all of the voices that have spat the word "freak" at him over the years; this aspect of himself always just seemed to be one more way that perhaps the masses were right about him. And yet, that tidy scrawl of four words in John's tight handwriting – small, bold, and consistent; so much like the man himself – somehow dulls the roar. The cascade of usernames and posts stands stark in his hand, a testament to John's assertion: these people are like him; they feel what he feels; they understand. And so, it seems, does John. The piece of paper quivers in his grip and he isn't aware that a single tear track snakes its way down his face until he feels small fingers on his hand.

"No sad," Rosie bleats with a puckered frown. "No sad, Shock."

He swipes at the tear with the back of his hand and lifts Rosie from her chair, clutching the little girl to his chest and giving a watery chuckle when she taps his chin.

"No sad," she says and drops her hot cheek to his shoulder.

"I won't be sad anymore, I promise," Sherlock murmurs to her, letting his face rest against her downy hair. He idly recalls the smooth strands of John's grey-gold hair beneath his cheek as John wept into his chest. Sherlock can't help the squeeze of his heart, marveling at how thoroughly these Watsons hold him in their thrall.

Hearing the telltale creak of floorboards in the hall, Sherlock turns his head to regard John. The doctor lays a small lilac hold-all on the floor just inside the door sill, shifting his overnight bag to his other hand. A crooked smile quirks his lips on one side and John leans heavily against the frame; his face softens and lines of tension smooth away as he watches Sherlock rock back and forth, Rosie's small fingers twining in a few errant curls at his nape.

"Never fails to amaze me how taken she is with you," John remarks.

"Given how badly I tend to trample nearly everyone else?" Sherlock offers wryly.

John huffs quiet laughter and moves to the sofa, dropping his bag at one end and sitting at the other, elbows folding over his knees so he can lean forward towards the pair of them. The detective rotates in his chair to face John, pulled inexorably towards him as always, but says nothing further. After a moment, John raises a hand and strokes his palm over Rosie's back in small soothing circles, his fingertips brushing against Sherlock's wrist in rhythmic glances of touch. The moment feels comfortable in silence but Sherlock's chest aches. However much he once might have ridiculed such saccharine musing, he now ponders if perhaps this is why people yearn so desperately to have children with a person they love. The child curled in Sherlock's arms is not his own but … but it _feels_ as if she is, as if she lays against his chest because she belongs to him, as if John's fingers linger on his skin because John belongs to Sherlock as well. In that moment, he wants so desperately for this notion to be the truth that the force of what he feels for John stifles him. He presses his cheek back into Rosie's hair. He _has_ to hide from John because with the enormity of the feeling, there's no way he could turn this face to John and expect him not to see.

A soft wuffling sound comes from Rosie, vibrating against Sherlock's pectoral, and he smiles when he realizes that she's fallen asleep on him. John must realize as much as well, a short exhalation of breath taking the place of a laugh. Sherlock lifts his head and regards John, gesturing briefly towards his bedroom with his chin, indicating his intention to lay Rosie down for a nap. John looks … disappointed for a moment – odd – then nods silently. Upon returning to the sitting room, Sherlock finds John unmoved but for the hands that have clasped between his knees, so Sherlock resumes his seat at the desk. John clenches and unclenches his fingers a few times before he speaks in a low voice, his eyes darting towards the now-closed door of Sherlock's bedroom.

"So," John begins, his voice just a tiny bit tense, "you saw the pages I left for you then?"

"Yes, I … thank you, John."

John's eyes dart up to his and then away. He nods. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Heart kicking against his ribs, Sherlock spends a brief moment debating doing just that. Telling John that the description _does_ sound like him. That only John would have bothered to look for something like this rather than simply write Sherlock off as an unfeeling, asexual machine. That perhaps he _can_ only feel desire for a man's body when he already desires the heart. That perhaps this is why he finds himself drowning in want for John every time his fingers touch his own skin. But although the sense memory of John's hand smooth and strong within his own still has shocking potency after nearly a month, he still can't shake the memory of how frightened John looked when he called Sherlock beautiful.

"Not—not yet," Sherlock manages, unsteady. "Perhaps sometime soon but—"

"You don't have to," John insists. "You don't ever have to share if you're uncomfortable—"

"I know that," Sherlock assures him. "It's just not quite the right time yet. As you said the night Rosie got burned: I will tell you, just not yet."

John nods. "Whenever you're ready."

They lapse into silence and stay that way for quite some time. The ticking and settling of the old building echoes around them, mingling with the ambient noise of London from outside the windows, but the two of them stay as they are for nearly an hour while Rosie sleeps. Eventually, Sherlock gets up and mills about the sitting room, collecting his laptop and a few other things he anticipates needing, placing his case in front of the sofa next to John's. John fiddles about in the kitchen filling a few cups of snacks and packets of juice for Rosie that he stuffs into her diaper bag to pass on to Molly. They circumnavigate each other throughout the two rooms but don't speak until they hear the doorbell, Mrs. Hudson's chirrupy greeting, and the shuffling footsteps on the stairs that follow.

"Molly," John says unnecessarily just before she knocks on the sitting room door.

"I'll go get Rosie," Sherlock mutters and heads off towards his bedroom.

As they hand over the still-sleepy toddler, Molly's gaze bounces between the two of them with clear curiosity and speculation but neither of them acknowledge it. With a somewhat bewildered smile, Molly precedes them down the stairs, Sherlock hoisting Rosie's bag onto one shoulder and gripping his case in the other hand. John follows him wordlessly but Sherlock can feel the pressure of the doctor's eyes like a palpable presence on the back of his neck.

* * *

A/N - So yes, demisexuality; this is my Sherlock. I think there's a lot of evidence to support it, especially with season four's projecting Sherlock as a highly emotional person who CHOSE to be restrained with his emotions. It fit, to me, although I acknowledge and enjoy many different depictions of his sexuality.

Next chapter will have some incredibly emotional, difficult scenes (in my opinion) but are some of the best character development I think I've ever done. Stay tuned.


	3. Bedtime Rituals

A/N - Screw it, I can't wait until tomorrow. This chapter took a lot of energy out of me and I think it's one of the best things I've ever written. But I won't lie, guys, the end of it is _hard_. But don't let that scare you away because there is some serious awesomeness in here too and some fun sexiness as well.

Usually I wouldn't put this BEFORE the fic (so as not to bias you) but when you're reading the section where Sherlock plays for John, I want you to have these songs in mind, as they inspired/informed how I wrote what I wrote: ( won't let me link things so unfortunately, you'll have to look the up yourself on YouTube)  
Sherlock Medley on Violin - Taryn Harbridge  
Sherlock Medley (Violin and Piano) - Webb Family Music  
Who You Really Are from the end of The Final Problem

Enjoy and don't hesitate to comment (hint hint)  
~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

* * *

 **Chapter Three – Bedtime Rituals**

Sherlock is in Hell. Unmitigated, unrelenting Hell. If such a place actually existed, he's positive that this would be it. Clearly the drugs and the yelling, the general disregard for people's feelings and being generally Not Good over the years has earned him box seats in damnation for eternity because honestly, he can't think of a worse fate for himself than this. John is nude in the tub of their ensuite bath, less than ten feet away from where Sherlock is in his pajamas in the bed that he will have to _share with John_ when John finishes bathing. The second bath he's taken today and the second one in which _John is naked less than ten feet away from Sherlock._ Sherlock admittedly may be an arrogant arse but he really doesn't think he deserves this sort of torture. Then again, the thought is insanely irritating when he recalls that he engineered this situation on purpose for some reason. He doesn't have any masochistic tendencies that he's aware of, but this predicament may cause him to reevaluate that. Although, in his own defense, he engineered this situation before he became aggravatingly aware of what John looks like naked. _Oh God._ He pinches the skin just above the bridge of his nose and attempts to massage out the tension.

More and more over the next ten minutes, Sherlock convinces himself that he's never going to survive this night without humiliating himself and potentially ruining their entire friendship. He's been on high alert all evening, starting from practically the moment they got on the train to come out to this forsaken place. There'd been a gross profusion of people on the evening train out of the city – already enough to get Sherlock's nerves on edge but also adding the stressor of forcing John to sit next to him on the bench seat, pressed very close up against Sherlock's side to make room for more people in the compartment. Feeling every centimeter of contact and degree of heat from John's body, Sherlock finds his thoughts constantly skittering away every time the train rocks and pushes John more tightly against him. They've had gar greater physical contact before but back then, Sherlock had been blissfully unacquainted with the appearance of nearly every inch of John's unclothed body, and that knowledge currently serves to drive Sherlock insane. Every jolt of the carriage compels some other part of John's body against him and reminds him of the sleek slenderness of the doctor's calves, the solid muscles of his thighs, the creamy skin of his chest marred in one spot by the scar that Sherlock's never before been allowed to see, the golden fuzz trailing across his belly. More than once, Sherlock can't quite stifle a small grunt when John brushes against him, causing John to put out a hand and touch his forearm, a wrinkle of concern creasing his friend's brow as John asks him what's wrong. The one time John's fingers alight upon his thigh, Sherlock actually stumbles into the people sitting across the way in his haste to get up. Only at the last moment does he think to face away from John as he slides out towards the safety of the corridor, mumbling some flimsy excuse as to why he needs to flee, trying to hide the evidence of a blooming erection because of John's touch. John doesn't see it but the man kitty-corner must get a hint before the folds of his coat camouflage his state; the man's eyes flicker between Sherlock's reddening face and John's confused one. Sherlock curses the hint of a smirk on the other man's lips and darts away as quickly as possible. Staying away as long as he dares, Sherlock grumbles under his breath when he returns to find John chatting pleasantly with the amused witness and, to his humiliation, the man favors him with a Cheshire grin when Sherlock reseats himself with a load huff.

The progress of the case proves to be similarly frustrating. The local clerk meets them at the station and takes John and Sherlock immediately to the historical society's office, giving a swift but thorough explanation of the situation and setting Sherlock up with every paper record and computer file he could need to begin his investigation. Almost immediately, the towheaded young man declares that he's going to pop out to a local bed-and-breakfast to secure them overnight accommodations. John's eyes dart upwards when Sherlock doesn't argue; clearly he's expecting Sherlock to be able to solve it before it would be too late to take a train home since Sherlock had declared the case to be no more than a three or four when he first introduced it to John.

"What's the matter with you?" John probes the instant the door clicks shut behind the clerk.

They can hear the clerk whistling as he strolls to the car – a detail that has Sherlock staring after him with narrowed eyes – so John doesn't trouble himself to lower his voice.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock asks, feigning absorption in the computer files he's sifting through. "John, have a look at those ledgers, would you? There's no way that a building of that size and age would have no record of things like taxes or fees or utility bills at the very least, so—"

"Sherlock," John says with more conviction, waiting until the detective gazes up from the monitor to continue. "What's wrong? You were even more disagreeable than usual on the train—"

Sherlock scowls, lowering his brows. "The 'more than usual' was uncalled for," he says primly.

"—and now you want to spend an evening at a bed-and-breakfast in the middle of nowhere for a case you could solve inside two hours?"

"As I attempted to tell you earlier, John, this case is more involved than I initially anticipated. It's—"

"A five at best," John finishes. "You can solve a five in an afternoon. Without leaving the flat. So why all the effort to come out here, especially when you were obviously so unhappy about making the trip?"

He feints for a hurt tone. "I thought you enjoyed getting out of the city."

John's eyes narrow and the blue depths are almost icy in their sharpness. "I do. When you're not up to something. And the fact that you're being so agreeable about it right now means you're definitely up to something, I just haven't figured out what it is yet."

"That's a surprise," Sherlock mutters and goes back to the screen he'd been perusing.

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"You should have that on a t-shirt."

John growls and snatches away the ledgers Sherlock pointed him towards in order to plop himself behind a desk on the other end of the office. "Why do I even put up with you?"

"And there's the back of the t-shirt," Sherlock finishes without much thought. He can hear John stiffen – or, rather, he notes the sudden complete silence – before he realizes the last time those words were said to John. The whole Magnussen ordeal leaps up in front of his eyes and through the haze of memory, Sherlock can see conflict and hurt on his friend's face.

"John, I—"

"Better get to work," John snaps and flips open the first ledger. "If we're going to actually stay the night, I'd like to get to a bed before midnight."

Sherlock debates prolonging the conversation, trying to issue some sort of apology, but decides it's probably a better idea to just let John use the silence and the distraction of the Work to cool his head a bit. Reapplying himself to the data, Sherlock barely notices the passing of hours as he clacks away at the keyboard, only pausing here and there to look over the ledgers that John silently lays next to his computer. Somewhere around 10:45 or so, Sherlock twists his neck this way and that, massaging out the stiffness in the muscles with his fingertips and gazing around the room, baffled to find it completely dark but for the single lamp John has turned on over the desk he occupies. He's similarly bewildered to find John polishing off the remnants of some chips in a takeaway container, grinning at him with a lopsided smirk.

"Did you finally get hungry or did you just realize that it got dark?" he asks congenially.

"The latter," Sherlock admits, gratified that John's smile deepens as he offers Sherlock a takeaway container and some plastic silverware. Sherlock inhales deeply and then opens his mouth to ask but John beats him to it.

"Lamb Tikka Masala. I went down to the pub – which is right next door to our bed-and-breakfast and the clerk assured me it is _famous,"_ John says with no little amount of sarcasm, "but I thought you might like something different. Asked about and came up with the Indian place around the corner. Seriously, you didn't notice that I was gone for over an hour?"

Sherlock shrugs then drags a chair over and digs into the tikka masala with relish, giving John an unrepentant but genuine smile in response. John just huffs a bit, an expected show of frustration, before he takes a swig from a bottle of water and regards him with a far more astute gaze.

"So … anything?"

Sherlock hums around a forkful before shaking his head. "No," he says thoughtfully, "and that's the curious part: I haven't found _anything."_

When John just stares at him with raised eyebrows, Sherlock continues.

"Nothing, John. Not taxes, utility bills, a parish registry, requests for the numerous historical renovations that have happened in the past … not even a careless teenager getting a parking ticket outside the car park. Nothing at all since the mid-nineties. This building has stood in this exact spot since the 1300s; surely _someone_ must have a record of _something_ happening here in the last twenty years regarding a centuries-old church. The parish congregation is active and devoted, the building is in good repair despite having had several refurbishments in the last hundred years or so … and yet, nothing. Not a single piece of any record regarding the building since November 1997, as if the whole building and all of its contents don't even exist at all. A few threads of something keeping picking at my brain but I can't make it come together."

John makes some wordless noise of agreement.

"You know," Sherlock says flatly, "this is all your fault."

"My fault?!" John remarks. "How could this possibly be _my_ fault?"

"As you said, John, this is a five at most and yet, I can't solve it! If you didn't insist on conditioning me to eat and sleep at regular intervals, I would have sharper focus and—"

"Yes, I've encouraged you to have discernibly healthy self-preservation instincts. What a horror your life must be."

Sherlock's lips quirk up at the edges as he spears another morsel of admittedly very good lamb and holds John's eyes as he pops it into his mouth. John scowls at him for a second and then the expression melts away, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he fights a grin and shakes his head.

"Look at me, John; I'm _eating. On a case,"_ Sherlock enunciates. "You're a terrible influence. Next thing you know, you'll tell me it's late and we should turn in."

Squinting through the darkness of the office at the clock on the wall, John says, "Come to think of it, I did tell the owner of the bed and breakfast that we'd be there by 11:30 at the latest. We should leg it over there so we don't keep her waiting too long."

 _"_ _John,"_ Sherlock protests in his most put-upon tone, but he's already up throwing away his food container and flicking the off switch on the computer.

"Come on, you rude wanker. Only polite to show up when we say we will so the poor woman can go to bed."

Sherlock chuckles and follows John out.

* * *

"Only one?" Sherlock asks and tries to keep his voice from the edge of hysteria.

"Sorry, gents," the blonde woman manning the desk says with an apologetic expression. "It's been a big weekend, seeing as how it's Christmas in a few days. Everyone home for the holidays and all, so we only have the Attic Room free. It's a double bed and there's a couch in there, so hopefully you can make it work?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John literally blocks him as he shoulders in front of the detective and gives the hostess a winning smile. Despite the dark circles around her eyes and clear weariness in her frame, the woman practically melts into a puddle when John grins at her.

"Thank you … Eva," he says as he leans over the counter to spy her name emblazoned on the pin just above her left breast. "Sorry to keep you up so late and to be such a bother. We really appreciate you accommodating us despite the hour. I promise we'll be model guests from here on out."

She brightens again and pushes her curtain of hair behind one ear, casting a glance down at the paperwork as she flushes under John's gaze. Sherlock barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says in a clipped, frosty tone that has the girl jerking in place as if she's just woken abruptly.

Eva clears her throat as she deposits a key in John's waiting fingers. "There's fresh linens on the bed – David let us know you were coming – and I've already put towels, flannels, soap, and things in the ensuite bath. Hopefully you won't need anything else but feel free to come down and see me if you do. I'm on all night."

She grins at John again and John returns the smile. Hoping that the grinding of his teeth hasn't yet become audible, Sherlock slides a hand around John's elbow and pulls him away, one step short of being a yank.

"I doubt that will be necessary," he says and heaves John towards the stairs. "Good night, Eva."

He gives John a push for good measure and then follows him up to the Attic Room. Three steps into the room, Sherlock scans it with his eyes. Well, it is what it says on the tin: an attic converted into a bedroom. Despite Sherlock's anxiety at being forced to share it with John after the fiasco that has been his self-restraint today, he privately admits that it is decent enough and will likely be quite nice tomorrow morning when the sun comes in the high windows on either side of the space. The bed is directly in front of them as they walk in – which catches John's focus as he strides over and deposits his bag upon it – with the couch to the right and a desk tucked in under the window to the left. Behind him stands a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf recessed into the wall, flanked by a door that is most likely the advertised ensuite loo. Sherlock's fingers skim over the books, cataloguing the titles in his mind, until he hears John clear his throat. With glance over his shoulder, Sherlock sees the tension in John's frame as John faces away from him, looking between the bed and the couch. Sherlock can't see the expression on the doctor's face but the tightness of John's voice speaks volumes.

"Well, I … I suppose I could sleep on the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock says, eyeing it with suspicion. "With your shoulder, you'll be in agony tomorrow if you sleep on a couch, even a good one. I will—"

"Come on, Sherlock, you're so bloody tall, you'll never fit without bending up at odd angles. And then you'll be a complete beast to deal with tomorrow."

Sherlock whirls to give him a slant-eyed glare but stops when he sees a flush climb from beneath the collar of John's shirt up to his cheeks. _Surely he isn't going to suggest—_

"Well, it isn't as if we haven't shared a bed before," John says, gesturing to the bed. He sits on the mattress and pats it in what he probably thought a casual gesture but seems horribly suggestive, all things considered. "No reason we can't be adult about this, right?"

Sherlock's throat tightens. John looks terrified.

"Of course," Sherlock says even though he definitely _meant_ to say the complete opposite.

"Okay," John says and clears his throat again. "You know, I think I'll have a bath before turning in. It's been a long day, might help me sleep."

"Right," Sherlock answers, not wanting to point out that John's bath this morning is exactly why they _shouldn't_ be sharing a bed. "Of course. I'll just …." He gestures weakly with his bag. "… Get ready for bed."

Oh God. He's not certain he could be any more awkward if he _tried_ to be.

"Yep," John says and retreats towards the loo. "You don't have to wait up for me. I won't be long."

Sherlock scoffs with a smile. "As if I'd be able to fall asleep in the twelve and a half minutes it takes you to bathe."

John reddens as he leans on the door frame of the bathroom. "You realize that it's creepy that you've timed how long it takes me to have a bath?"

"I haven't timed you, John; I pay attention. Subtle difference." Sherlock moves to the desk where he lays out his bag and fishes for his pajamas inside its depths. "Besides," he continues as John begins to bang around getting his bath started, "given that I delete things that you consider fundamental knowledge such as the current members of the monarchy or the structure of the solar system, I'd think you'd be flattered that I pay attention to your bathing habits and how you take your tea and consider them of significant importance to occupy space in my Mind Palace."

Sudden silence from the loo except for a lap of water against the sides of the tub. Oh. Probably a Bit Not Good to admit that. Damn, he really is off his usual focus today.

"You're right."

The loo door muffles John's voice but there's something else odd about it. He wishes he could see John's face but given the fact that the doctor is most likely naked at the moment, it's probably a tender mercy that he can't.

"When you put it that way," John continues, "I'm rather flattered."

"Good," Sherlock says stiffly. "That's … good."

Another moment of silence and then a bit of gentle splashing. The image of a nude John settling into a steaming tub has Sherlock scrambling for a distraction. He hurriedly shucks his clothing and dons his pajamas, taking care to fold his trousers, shirt, and pants and lay them in a neat pile on the desk beneath the window, storing his overnight bag beneath. On his way back to the bed, Sherlock catches a glimpse of John's bag, half-open on the couch, and notices that John's own worn flannel pajama bottoms and plain white t-shirt still sit at the top just beneath the zip. John didn't take his clothes into the loo with him, meaning that he will have to either come out here and get them – in a towel – or dress for bed here in the main room. Where Sherlock would be in bed. Awake. With very few options to avoid watching John's naked body – _oh God._ He's _definitely_ in Hell.

* * *

About four minutes into his (apparently) twelve and a half minute bathing routine, John realizes that he's left his pajamas in his bag out in the bedroom. Where Sherlock is waiting for him. In bed. One they'll be sharing.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters to the bar of soap in his hand. "There's no doubt about it: I'm in Hell."

Leaning his head back against the cool porcelain of the tub, John stares at the ceiling and ruminates about what in the bloody fuck he's going to do about this. Not much he _can_ do, really, except finish bathing, go out there, and climb into bed with that long-limbed wank fantasy made flesh that his best friend has become and somehow _not_ embarrass himself spectacularly by going full mast hard the instant he gets in bed. Christ, what a nightmare. He curses Mycroft and Lady Smallwood and whoever the fuck else is responsible for this case. If they'd stayed in London, John would have had home field advantage for giving a little push at what they'd been dancing around this morning. There'd been no doubt in John's mind that Sherlock had been looking at John – or at least, trying not to look and failing miserably – in the bath and if he'd been at home right now where he could retreat to his bedroom if it turned out he was wrong about things, this would have been so much bloody easier. Instead, he's out in a little hole-in-the-wall town (which he probably would have found lovely in other circumstances) investigating something that Sherlock should have been able to solve without even putting his trousers on and now having to share a bloody bed with him. Although, thinking about Sherlock without trousers on will definitely not aid the situation, considering what was going on the last time he saw Sherlock without trousers.

"Buggering fuck," John mutters as his cock starts to fill hopefully. "Listen, you," he points at the traitorous appendage, "you damn well better behave yourself tonight. This mess is awkward enough as it is without untimely erections."

Eight and a half minutes later, John still hasn't come up with a way of getting dressed for bed without looking like a prat or getting naked in front of Sherlock so he decides to just brazen it out and hope for the best. He towels off swiftly as the tub drains, shuffling the terrycloth over his hair to remove any errant drops, and stands in front of the mirror for a few moments, pondering. Deciding against anything that would scream that he's attempting to impress someone – Sherlock would sniff it out in a second – he just gives himself an honest, hard once-over. He isn't bad looking, really; he's pulled plenty of women over the years despite being more than averagely short and sort of plain as far as his face is concerned. He turns said face back and forth in front of the glass, deciding that it's not such a bad face. It's a face that's actually improved over time even with his hair mostly grey and his eyes tired from grief and raising a toddler. The only 'ugly' thing on him is the scar, and even that doesn't really bother him all that much anymore. All right, he isn't posh and handsome like Sherlock but John firmly tells himself he's got nothing to be ashamed of, so he wraps the towel around his waist and heads out to the bedroom.

Sherlock's propped up in a sitting position on the far side of the bed, long legs prominent under the duvet, his face angled down at his phone. As soon as John strides in and makes his way to the couch to rummage through his bag, the detective looks up from the screen, pinkens through the cheeks, and then glances away nervously, busying himself with plugging his mobile into the charger cord on the nightstand. John takes this opportunity for the godsend that it is, drops his towel and heaves himself into his pajama bottoms as quickly as he can manage. The noise on the other side of the room stops and John resolutely refuses to consider whether it's because Sherlock saw him naked or specifically _refused_ to see him naked. Doesn't matter though because by the time John has pulled the t-shirt down over his head and turned back towards the bed, Sherlock is shuffling down underneath the covers.

"I, erm," Sherlock mumbles then starts again. "I took this side of the bed because it won't put you on your bad shoulder. I … hope that's all right."

A small smile works its way across John's face as he moves to the bed. "That's fine. Thanks. Very considerate of you."

"Well, I've noticed it's your preferred side of the bed anyway, so…." Sherlock trails off and glances away again when John sits carefully on the edge of the mattress and swings his feet beneath the covers.

With Sherlock wriggling into place beneath the covers next to him, John can't help but feel that this is so ... oddly domestic. He drops his mobile on the nightstand next to his side just next to where he'd dropped his wallet earlier and turns back to Sherlock. He leans in without thinking, as if he were going to kiss Sherlock goodnight; only a few inches away from Sherlock's face, he realizes himself and goes rigid. John shuffles away and stares, red-faced, towards the foot of the bed.

"Sorry," he says, his voice pinched. "Sorry, I … habit. You know, after spending so many nights sleeping next to Mary and all."

Sherlock nods, eyes wide, and then mumbles, "Of course. Well … goodnight, John," in an unsteady voice.

Rolling onto his right side, John now stares a hole in the door across the room. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he says.

John can feel Sherlock's body heat warming his back and the bed is narrow enough that there's only an inch or so between them beneath the covers. Sherlock stays ramrod straight behind him and his posture doesn't ease on the bed until long after John slides into the welcoming dark of sleep.

* * *

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, where the tiny sliver of moon is the only illumination in the room, John wakes because something feels wrong. Nearly a decade in the military and his time as a father have made him a light sleeper and given him the ability to snap awake at a moment's notice, so when the first twinges of wrongness tingle in the back of his mind, John becomes instantly alert. For a moment, he nearly calls out to Rosie before he remembers where he is. When his brain catches up, he rolls from his back to his left side and immediately discovers the problem. Contrary to the usual splay-limbed sleeping configuration, Sherlock lays flat on his back and his eerie stillness pricks at John's mind as _wrong-wrong-wrong._ It only takes him a second to notice that Sherlock isn't breathing. Or, rather, he's holding his breath. His body trembles with the effort to hold it in for a moment and then it bursts out of him. Sherlock takes a few heaving breaths and then holds it again, a mournful, aching noise reverberating in his chest. He lets out a keen then holds his breath again for a few seconds, every limb quaking. While John's never specifically seen Sherlock do this, it's no mystery what's happening.

"Sherlock," he says gently, leaning in towards his friend so that his voice can penetrate in the most non-jarring way he can manage. "Sherlock, come on now; wake up."

Sherlock's body bows up off the bed and his head flails towards John. When he releases his held breath, it's on a moan that actually contains words.

 _"_ _John!"_

It leaves Sherlock's lips no more loudly than John's own murmur but it's full of agony.

"No, no, John…. I'm sorry, _I'm sorry!"_

Oh God. John's eyes pinch shut for a moment and he has to take a steadying gulp of air before he can continue in an even tone. His heart aches painfully behind his ribs but he tries not to let it show. He lets a soft hand at Sherlock's shoulders accompany his words when he speaks again.

"Wake up, Sherlock. Come on, come back to me. I know you can hear me, come on. Wake up, Sherlock." His voice sounds desperate towards the end. The last thing he wants to do is startle the man – he has too much experience with what can come from waking someone in the throes of a nightmare, especially if it's something like PTSD. Contrary to what John had hoped for that his voice, as calm and reassuring as he can manage, would soothe his friend and allow him to shake loose from the dream but the sound of John's words seem to catapult Sherlock into agony.

 _"_ _Please, please, not John! Not John!"_

Sherlock sounds panicked now, gulping and gasping, his limbs beginning to thrash with the effort. There's nothing for it, John needs to wake him immediately. He grips the detective's shoulders tight and gives him a few firm but controlled shakes.

"Sherlock, wake up! Come on, wake up! _Now,"_ he finishes in his most commanding Captain Watson voice.

For whatever reason, it does the trick. Sherlock wakes like a lightning strike, thrashing against John's tight hold on him, his eyes snapping open and wheeling around the room in panic.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, come on, look at me. Look at me!" John says, angling the detective's shoulders towards him so John dominates his field of view. "You're all right. You're awake now. You're here with me."

Sherlock pants as if he's just run a race but his eyes finally focus and lock onto John's face. They're still alight with hysteria and beads of sweat run down from the younger man's hairline, but at least he's concentrating on John's face. Long slim fingers close around John's biceps and clamp a hard grip as John pulls them both up to a sitting position.

"It's all right," John says firmly. "It's okay, you're safe—"

 _"_ _John,"_ Sherlock groans. "John, you're—"

"I'm safe, too," he assures his friend. "It's all right now. You're awake and you're here with me and we're both safe—"

Anxious fingers dart all over John's upper body, skittering up his arms to his chest and then, to John's surprise, up under his t-shirt where Sherlock's touch scrambles along his pectorals. He pushes along John's collarbone then down the breast bone, heedless of the tug of his fingernails in John's chest hair. Although the detective doesn't completely relax, some of the tension goes out of Sherlock as he slides his hands back down John's stomach and out from under his shirt. After a few moments of tracing his gaze across John's bewildered features, the younger man drops flat to his back and brings shaking hands up to cover his face as he tries to regulate his breathing. John lets the silence hang for a while then slides back down to his pillow and gazes at his friend as he massages the bridge of his nose and avoids John's gaze.

"Nightmare, then?"

Sherlock nods but doesn't remove his hands from his face.

John stays quiet for a moment then asks, "Want to tell me what you were looking for under my shirt?"

Sherlock does look at John that time and blushes, maintaining eye contact for only a moment before staring up at the ceiling. "Gunshot," he says shortly.

John blinks and furrows his brow. "Well, you were a few inches wide of the mark. Left shoulder. You know that."

"No, not _that_ gunshot. Obviously, I—" His jaw snaps shut so quickly John hears an audible click of teeth.

And then he understands. "You dreamt I got shot?"

Sherlock seems to be counting the beams in the ceiling. He nods.

"In the heart?"

Another nod. Eventually, the detective admits, "I dreamt it was you instead of Mary."

 _Jesus._

John stares at the ceiling for a moment, too. "Do you have that dream a lot?"

The silence that follows is telling. "It's the most common one, yes."

The most _common._ One of many, then. John understands that, certainly. "And I die in the dream?"

Sherlock actually lets out a little whimper he seems incapable off stifling and turns his head away. His chest heaves and he's clearly struggling to keep his breath even.

"I … what you said that night I got the knife wound, it … it stuck with me, John."

Sherlock's deep rumble wobbles and the realization that Sherlock is attempting to stifle sobs horrifies John.

"I can't imagine what it would be like to hold my hand over your heart as it stopped beating and have to—"

John doesn't let himself reconsider his actions, he simply acts: he threads his arm beneath Sherlock's back and pulls, rolling the taller man onto his side and cradling him into the pocket of his shoulder. Sherlock stays stiff against him as John lifts a hand and palms Sherlock's face but the detective doesn't resist when John gently guides the other man down against his chest. Shifting a bit to get the best angle, John shimmies until Sherlock's cheek lays directly atop his sternum. He knows that the heartbeat under his friend's ear is nearly audible in the still room.

"There it is," he says in a low whisper. "Listen and focus on it. Good steady beat. Nice and strong."

It takes a few minutes but the rest of the tension drains out of Sherlock. He just breathes and clutches his hand in the front of John's t-shirt and listens to the slow, steady thud of John's heart beating beneath his ear.

"I'm here, Sherlock," he murmurs, gazing down at the riot of curls covering his chest. "I'm with you. I'm safe. Just try to get some sleep."

Sherlock doesn't mention it when John's arm slides up around Sherlock and over the ball of his shoulder. He just angles his face in towards John's chest, so John lets it pass when Sherlock scoots closer, his long body touching John's all the way down to their ankles. John drifts back into sleep listening to the puffs of Sherlock's breaths against his chest.

* * *

Just before dawn, John's mind pulls him to the surface again. It's not that foreboding sense of wrong that had yanked him awake several hours ago but more that his mind is telegraphing that something is … different. Thanks to the necessity of cases, John's shared a room with Sherlock before. Owing to the events of the anniversary of Mary's death, now he's even shared a bed with him before. What is definitely new about the situation, however, is that he's never woken up with Sherlock twined around him like a strangling vine, every limb wound over and around one of John's. Sometime during the last few hours, John rolled part way onto his stomach on the right side and now he's covered in six feet of heavy, warm, oddly-affectionate-while-sleeping consulting detective. John's left leg is bent at the knee, so on the top half his entire chest is pressed against the mattress with his arms thrust under his pillow but on the bottom half his bent knee keeps him from being totally flat. Sherlock has managed to drape himself over every conceivable inch of the back of John: his cheek presses against the side of John's neck; one long arm snakes around John's waist, dropping a hand in front of John's belly; Sherlock's left leg winds in between both of John's, his knee fitting neatly into the back crook of John's own. Despite the intellectual strangeness of being wrapped up like ivy with his best friend, John supposes that, in the physical sense, this probably wouldn't have been the thing that pulls him from slumber, given that he's experienced something like it before. Mary was a snuggler in bed; although, granted, she wasn't quite so bloody large. No, the one facet of the situation that has John staring wide-eyed at the wall across from the bed is the unmistakable presence of an erection wedged against his left arse cheek as if it has every right to be there.

In a disconnected way, John tells himself that it isn't really anything all that shocking. As Sherlock himself said, he's human and has the same needs and 'biological imperatives' as any other mature human male. Erections, particularly in the mornings, are just another thing that proves this. John just hadn't been quite so _directly acquainted_ with Sherlock's … humanity. Although now that the evidence pushes against his bum, he can't help but recall the last time he became acquainted with said humanity. A flash of that image comes back to him; on the back of his eyelids, he sees the vision of Sherlock's body bowing off his bed as he stroked at his weeping cock, head thrown back and moaning. The vision absolutely does not help John's situation, given that when John shifts anxiously, Sherlock's arm tightens at John's waist and he gives an involuntary little rock of his hips as he moves with John. A strangled noise ekes out of John's throat and he claps a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Sherlock murmurs something unintelligible and nuzzles his nose into the hollow under John's chin.

 _"_ _Shit,"_ John whispers and tries to take deep, steadying breaths.

Okay. It's fine, it's all fine. Sherlock's just got a bit of morning wood and John can _definitely_ handle this in a calm, mature fashion and—

"Mmmmmm," Sherlock rumbles against John's neck. Whatever the hell is going on in that prodigious brain at the moment must be quiet nice because, Jesus, John thinks he feels Sherlock get even harder against his arse and—

Oh, God, does that mean it's not just a normal morning thing? Is he … Is Sherlock maybe dreaming? If he is, it's definitely something about sex because he gives another little unconscious rock of his hips and John definitely can't stifle a noise this time. This last motion pushes John flatter against the bed, which means Sherlock lays half on top of him now and the prominent erection which was a minor problem when pressed against his cheek becomes a significant problem when it slides against the crack of his arse.

Oh God, oh Christ, oh no. Not Good. Incredibly Not Good.

Sherlock makes a little "ah!" sound against John's skin and John shivers. The drag of Sherlock's heavy bottom lip against John's neck makes him curse out loud. Sherlock proves himself to be definitively human because John's muttered "ah, fuck!" gets taken as encouragement by Sherlock's dozing brain and body; this time, the slim hips give a much more purposeful push against John's bum, dragging his cotton-clad erection through the valley of John's arse in a slow, insistent slide. John grits his teeth and tries to hold back a grunt. Sherlock gives another low rumble of noise that is distinctly a word.

"John."

The doctor freezes. His pulse bangs at his throat. He's sure that any second now the detective will lever up onto an elbow and ask John why in the hell he's allowed the man to dry hump his arse for the last several minutes without protest. Except his muscles begin to wobble from staying tense while the silence remains unbroken. John dares to turn his head just enough to peer over his shoulder and finds that the detective's eyes remain closed, his face loose and line-free in slumber.

So Sherlock was calling his name out while asleep? John's heart hammers against his ribs again. It seems like this solidifies what he'd been wondering; Sherlock is dreaming and it seems fairly likely that he's dreaming about John. With an erection. So to confirm his theory, John does something that, it turns out, is phenomenally stupid. He pushes his hips back against Sherlock and lets his voice leave him on a low moan. The effect is practically instantaneous: Sherlock rolls body against John's, thrusting his hard cock against John in an insistent nudge, his head tilting down when he lets out a groan of pleasure against the doctor's neck.

"Mmmm," he rumbles, "John – ah! – John…."

The words slur with sleepiness but it's clearly his name and sweet Christ that voice sounds like liquid sin. John can't help it, he's rocking his hips in tandem with Sherlock's, not bothering to check the pants pushing between his lips. Sherlock mutters a steady stream of mews of pleasure and John's name against his neck as he thrusts against John's bum in long, slow circles. John's fingers clutch at the bed clothes beneath him and he sinks his face into his pillow, firmly telling himself to stop this nonsense at once but still moving in time with Sherlock's rapidly increasing thrusts. When one of the movements of Sherlock's hips jars him enough that Sherlock's prick actually slides between his spread legs and nudges up against the back of John's bollocks, he lets out a thick groan. Encouraged by the noise, Sherlock's hand moves from a clutch at John's hip to threading his fingertips beneath the waist of John's pajama bottoms and starting to make its way downward. Another thrust, another push against John's balls, and John starts to think he may not even need Sherlock's hand to reach his cock; the bump of Sherlock's erection against his testicles and the friction of the mattress against his now achingly stiff prick might be enough to bring him off without any aid. And that's what shakes John back to reality.

Christ, he has to stop this. As good as it feels, as much as he desperately wants the fingers currently brushing his pubic hair to wrap around his cock, he definitely cannot allow that to happen. First of all, he's taken advantage of his sleeping (and it has to be said, sexually naïve) friend enough as it is; essentially using him as a masturbatory aid while he's asleep is far too many shades of wrong for John to rationalize away. Secondly, if John's this close to coming then Sherlock definitely is as well and how exactly would John explain this when Sherlock inevitably awoke mid-orgasm?

Another deep moan of his name puffs against his neck with Sherlock's moist breath and John forces himself into action. He lifts Sherlock's arm as carefully as possible, sliding his pillow beneath as he goes. It's not nearly good enough but it'll have to do. Once Sherlock curls around the pillow, John extricates himself from beneath Sherlock's lower half as quickly as he dares. His normally silent walk becomes nearly impossible with a ragingly stiff erection and he feels like he's fucking waddling as he heads for the loo, but he can't even stand to look back at the bed, he just needs to get away. Once the bathroom door clicks shut behind him, John yanks down his pajama bottoms and has the quickest, most desperate wank of his life. Barely a half dozen feverish tugs along his length and he's coming in jerky streams against the front of the cupboard beneath the sink.

His heart gallops in his chest for an insanely long time as he sits on the edge of the tub, head in hands, wondering what in bloody fuck he's going to do about this.

* * *

Sherlock has no idea what to make of John today. At first, Sherlock had worried that John would be embarrassed or gruffly resentful of the events of last night – particularly Sherlock's unfortunate breakdown – but it seems to have made John … warmer. In fact, John has been bandying between warm, soft expressions that Sherlock can barely interpret and heated gazes that, had John been staring at anyone other than Sherlock, even a moron like Anderson could interpret. Every time John fixes him with one of those intense stares, Sherlock finds himself unsettled and unsteady, bobbling evidence, garbling his deductions, and generally making a prat of himself. It frustrates him to no end that the rational part of his brain insists on the obvious conclusion but the rest of him simply refuses to believe it. John _cannot_ be lusting after him. Even after the odd, shifting tension between the two of them lately, even just the idea of it is patently ridiculous. And it is making him sloppy, as he's spent more time deducing John than the case. With a growl of frustration, Sherlock lowers his head back to the laptop screen in front of him and digs relentlessly for some kind of sign as to what the bloody hell is going on with this case.

* * *

John follows Sherlock up the stairs of Baker Street, smiling at Sherlock's back and shaking his head ruefully.

"Completely ridiculous that I didn't see it before, John. Absolutely insane. Should have been obvious from the moment we walked in the door—"

John huffs. "Give yourself a bit of a break, Sherlock; it really wasn't as obvious as all that."

"Of _course_ it was, John," Sherlock scowls as he whirls around in the doorway to the sitting room. "I should have realized it immediately. That clerk was far too eager to be accommodating. Over-confidence, clearly; thought his plan was fool-proof and he'd never be caught."

"Well, he did have an inside man, as it were, in MI6. I could understand why he felt a bit cocky." John grunts as he drops his overnight case next to the stairs leading up to his bedroom and follows Sherlock into the sitting room. "Inside woman, I mean; the girl in MI6 who was helping him embezzle."

Sherlock waves the explanation away. "Trying to impress her. Obvious. Dull. Thought he could pocket enough of the renovation funds, taxes, what-have-you. Thought it would make him her equal. A small-town clerk. Ridiculous. Frankly, I should have known it from the start; every person in this case was pathetically attempting to impress someone—"

He says it nonchalantly but Sherlock's comment stops John stock-still in the middle of the room. Maybe if he prods gently enough …. "Everyone?" he asks carefully.

 _"_ _Everyone,_ John," Sherlock says with a heavy tone of distaste. "The clerk trying to astound his MI6 paramour, Lady Smallwood allowing me to be the one to root out the mole in MI6 was obviously a ploy to get on Mycroft's good side, even—"

Sherlock swings around, gesturing to his own chest, and then freezes when he catches John's raised eyebrows.

"Well, I—" Sherlock stammers.

John takes a few steps forward, folding his arms over his chest. "Who were _you_ trying to impress?"

Staring wall-eyed at John for a moment, the younger man quickly drops his hands and murmurs, "I suppose not _everyone—"_

John ignores him. "Me? Were you trying to impress me?"

Clearing his throat, Sherlock pastes an entirely transparent expression of boredom on his features but conspicuously fails to meet John's eyes. "You know I do love to be congratulated."

"Be that as it may," John continues smoothly, "you ought to know by now that you don't have to _try_ to impress me. I always think you're brilliant."

"Do you still? After everything?" the detective asks quietly.

"How can you even ask that? Of course I do."

Something heartrendingly vulnerable tints Sherlock's expression. "It's just that it's been so long since you've said. You haven't called me that in ages."

John's brow furrows; he's genuinely gobsmacked by that assertion. "Haven't I?"

Sherlock shakes his head and fidgets with his fingers. "Not since before I … fell."

A tightness spreads through John's chest and he has to close his eyes for a minute. "Well, I always think it. I always have. Likely always will. Guess I just need to say it out loud more often."

"Thank you, John." His voice sounds so terribly small.

When John opens his eyes again, Sherlock's face pinches into an odd expression and one hand twitches up towards his left shoulder.

John scowls. "Still bothering you?"

Sherlock glares back and immediately jams his hands into his trouser pockets but it's no good; the stiffness in his posture is unmistakable and he's favoring the shoulder in the way he's holding himself up.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just let me look at it!" John grumbles. "I told you that I think it's more than just a jam. When he tossed you over that desk, the jar from the fall likely dislocated the joint."

"It's _not_ dislocated, John. Obviously," Sherlock protests and gestures with his right hand. The movement is jerky and he tries to hide a wince when the shoulder moves.

"Yeah, that was convincing. It may not be dislocated _now_ but if it was then, you need to be careful with it and let me treat it for the swelling. And I can't know if that's the case unless you let me look at the damn thing."

John strides over purposefully, hands raised towards his friend's shoulder, but Sherlock darts away so quickly that John might have even called it a scramble. His eyes narrow at the detective. "What are you hiding?"

Sherlock gives an exaggerated eye roll that reminds him forcefully of his toddler. "I'm not hiding anything, I simply have no desire for your particular brand of molly-coddling over nothing."

"Nope," John cuts in. "However capricious you are with your needs for pedestrian things like food and sleep, you've never stopped me from treating actual injuries before. Except that ever since I moved back in here, you haven't let me have a proper look at anything. Why?"

Sherlock tries to make the few steps away look casual, however John can tell that they're anything but. John stalks after him until Sherlock's back bumps against the desk. The detective never answers John's question but when he gives Sherlock his best I'm-former-military-don't-you-dare-fuck-with-me icy glare, Sherlock relents and stops fleeing. He overtly refrains from aiding John, though, when the doctor reaches for the shirt buttons just below Sherlock's throat. In fact, he does so little to get out of John's way as John strips the shirt off of him that John actually has to yank the offending garment from Sherlock's shoulders. The other man flinches but continues to stare holes in the opposite wall of the flat. Starting a bit when John brings his hands up, Sherlock compresses his lips and remains silent as John prods at the join as gingerly as he can with nimble fingers.

"Okay, definitely some swelling," John murmurs as he works, his eyes tracing over the round of Sherlock's shoulder, "so I was more than likely right about the dislocation—" Sherlock ignores the pointed glower, "but it's clearly back in now, so you'll just have to be gentle with it for a week or so, take some paracetamol for the pain, and—Sherlock, where did you get this scar?"

A quick flick upwards with his eyes and John sees that Sherlock has clamped his own lids shut. John definitely would have remembered a long, inelegant gash across the back of Sherlock's shoulder on any of the previous times he's patched up the detective so this is definitely noteworthy. His flatmate remains resolutely silent and unseeing as John goes over to the side table, clicks on another lamp for more light, and comes back for a better look. When he returns, Sherlock still has his eyes shut and several places on the thin face twitch randomly but he doesn't resist as John wraps a hand around the detective's ribcage to turn him for a closer study of the scar. As Sherlock shuffles to face away from John, John gets the better look he wanted and the doctor is suddenly, stupidly afraid that he might vomit on the carpet.

Sherlock's back looks like a relief map made entirely of scars. Long, thin gashes that slices across his shoulders. Thick rectangular welts framing either side of his spine. Raised red circles the size of the tip of his pinky dotting the tender skin of the small of his back. A few faded oblongs just at the bottom of his ribs that cover a few knotty bumps beneath. Two angry, jagged red marks whose shape doesn't really have a name just above his waistband. John takes long, slow sips of air through his nose, blowing them out through his mouth, as he wobbles on his feet and tries not to retch.

"Sherlock," John manages, his voice steadier than he could have hoped for, "what is this?"

Sherlock wavers in place but stays silent; his breaths hitch but he doesn't move away.

 _"_ _Sherlock,"_ John nearly shouts. His voice breaks at the end and he clutches at the other man's biceps – to steady himself? To steady Sherlock? God, who knows – before he can speak again. "Sherlock. I can't – tell me what I'm seeing. Please."

He supposes that it's the 'please' that induces Sherlock to answer. "You were a soldier, John; a doctor-soldier. Surely you recognize the signs." The flatness of the tone pushes John that much closer to vomiting.

John thinks the word. He thinks it and doesn't want to say it because he knows it's the right one but God, he doesn't want it to be the right one.

"You must know, John."

He forces it through his lips. "Torture. You were tortured."

John hadn't noticed that Sherlock stopped breathing until the detective's chest rattles with a few large gulps of air, making him wobble backwards into John's supporting hands.

"Tell me," John croaks. "Everything."

"I can't."

John grits his teeth. "This is why you wouldn't let me look at you. This is—you wouldn't let me help you bathe after the gunshot; you made me treat that knife-wound through a curtain of your ruined shirt; you used to swan about in a sheet and now you're glued to your dressing gown. You—this is what you didn't want me to see. You didn't want me to know."

"John—"

The plea is so plaintive that John has to rub at the ache beneath his breastbone. "Tell me, Sherlock. I have to know. I _have to."_ His whole world might disintegrate in front of him if he doesn't understand.

"I—" Sherlock begins but then takes a few rhythmic breaths. John's hands tighten on his arms and Sherlock leans into them. "Serbia. Moriarty's network, the last big piece of it, was in Serbia."

"Serbia," John repeats because it's the best he can do to show he's listening.

"Serbia," Sherlock says again, his voice uneven. "All of my intel had suggested that the operation was small and crudely organized – a baron with more delusions of grandeur than brain cells – and that I would be able to dismantle it quickly and quietly. I neglected to take into account that occasionally Mycroft's information might be sometimes days or weeks old, depending on the source and the danger, given the fact that we could only be in contact so often. I managed to dismantle the surface level of the organization but it was messier than I expected and I had to flee. A safe house that I'd thought would be available and secure had been raided the previous week … they knew I'd be coming … I had no choice but to flee into the woods and … obviously, I was caught."

"Caught?" John says. God, will he be able to do anything other than parrot back Sherlock's words?

"Captured," Sherlock amends. "They believed I was a spy from a rival syndicate and tortured me for information which I didn't have. They refused to believe I didn't have it, I admit, because I did my usual performance and made them all look like morons inside two minutes of capture."

The tone is meant to be flippant and it does manage to tease a slightly-manic laugh out of John's mouth without permission but the noise dies away swiftly. Sherlock sounds like he's gasping when he resumes speaking.

"They detained me for a few weeks and attempted to extract the information they need."

"A few?" John asks. His fingers skim over some of the more prominent marks on Sherlock's back. He stops counting at nineteen. "This is more than a few weeks' worth, Sherlock. There's _layers_ of stuff here.

Sherlock twitches beneath John's touch and reluctantly admits, "Nine."

"Weeks?!" John's voice bursts out of him far louder than he intends, causing Sherlock to jump. "And where the bloody hell was your almighty brother? Where was Mycroft while you were being beaten to hell for nine weeks?"

"He—you must understand, John," Sherlock says in a rush, "sometimes we wouldn't be able to communicate for days or weeks at a time because I was constantly moving and it wasn't safe. It took him three weeks to become aware of my situation, a week to actually find me, and another four to wade in far enough to even get close to me."

"Wade in? _Wade in?"_

John nearly bites his tongue in half at the way Sherlock practically leaps away from him when he shouts this. The detective curls his arms around his stomach, still facing away from John.

"Mycroft did his best. I was livid myself when he first got me out but … I'm not sure I could have done any better if I were in his position."

"That's a lie," John spits. "You would have been there and back inside a fortnight and you know it."

He can almost hear Sherlock's lips turn up at the corners. "Your confidence in my skills is bracing, John, but perhaps a bit unrealistic."

A puff of warm breath leaves John and strikes Sherlock's pale back; he watches the detective lean back towards the source of it. John can't seem to stop himself skimming his hands across the back of Sherlock's arms to run his fingertips over all the scars, a whisper of contact over each angry mark.

"What did they do to you?"

"Observe, John. You tell me."

It's an avoidance tactic, he knows. Self-preservation. Sherlock can't bring himself to say it all, so he's asking John to do it for him. John understands, so he obliges. Sherlock was right: John was a soldier and a doctor in a brutal place; he knows what he's looking at, for the most part.

His fingers touch the slim slices across sharp shoulder blades. "Whipping? With … a cord of some kind?"

"Electrical wire," Sherlock confirms, his voice expressionless. "See the marks at the end? The cord was frayed."

John swallows back a mouthful of saliva and bile and nods. His touch moves to the series of marks and knots at his spine. "Good, old-fashioned beating. Fractured some ribs that didn't heal properly."

"Lead pipe. Towards the end, so the state of my healing was hardly their main concern."

The jagged marks and circular ones down the small of his back and across his hips both look like … "Burns? But with different," he clears his throat, "mediums?"

Sherlock reaches back and points to the general direction of the irregular splotches – "acid" – and then the circular ones – "cigarette." He delivers the remarks so blandly that John feels light-headed.

John notices that the circular ones trail most of the way down his hips and disappear under the waist of his trousers. With sudden, horrifying clarity, John has another suspicion and he dreads having it confirmed. A textbook submission method.

"Sherlock, how … how far down do these marks go?"

Sherlock tries to crane his neck sideways to look at John, who ducks his face behind the blade of Sherlock's shoulder. "Another few inches. Why?"

John's hands come to rest at the younger man's hips. "Sherlock, did they … did … were you …?"

A long moment of silence passes because John can't seem to say the word. Sherlock eventually gets frustrated and snaps at him.

"I don't know what you're trying to ask!"

"You do. You must."

Sherlock growls out, "I _don't."_

When John's thumbs skim down the center seam of Sherlock's trousers, over his arse, Sherlock's head snaps forward again and he stares blankly at the fireplace.

"Did they—"

Sherlock rescues John from having to word the rest. "No."

"Sherlock," John prods, because with all the other evidence, it isn't really so far out of the realm of likelihood to think that they might have raped him.

"No, John. I think that they may have it … but they got lax towards the end, only one guard on me and it was Mycroft undercover, so I pulled a few timely deductions on the man with the pipe so he would leave me alone. I suspect that if it had gone on longer, they might have—but no. They didn't … they didn't."

John lets the room fall back to silence again as his fingers retrace all the marks on Sherlock's back. The detective stays quiet but shudders and quakes as John's touch traverses his skin. Sherlock doesn't stop him, though, and the longer things go on, the more he feels Sherlock leaning back into his touch. Just a tiny, tiny bit but he's doing it. John flattens his palms against the back of Sherlock's shoulder blades, letting his fingers curl up and over.

"Why didn't you want me to know?" he asks, his voice hushed.

"I wasn't good enough, John. Fast enough. Every mark you see is a monument to my failure."

"Jesus, you weren't kidding when you said that Mary giving value to your life was currency you didn't know how to spend, were you? You didn't _fail,_ Sherlock." God, how could he even think that? And then another question hits him. "You said this happened at the end? That this was the last piece of the network, Serbia?"

"Mmmm," Sherlock confirms.

"How long before you came back to London did this happen?"

Sherlock stiffens beneath his hands. Oh God, no. "… Not long."

John straightens. "How long, Sherlock?" He asks it again when he doesn't receive a reply.

Eventually, Sherlock admits, "A few days."

John can barely believe it. "A few _days_ before you came back to London. And how long were you in London before you came to crash my dinner at The Landmark?"

"It wasn't—" Sherlock begins to hedge but John won't have it.

 _"_ _Sherlock,"_ he says, his voice cutting through the air, icy and sharp.

"Approximately twelve hours."

John swears under his breath, letting loose what may be every single curse word he can think of, and presses his forehead in the gap between Sherlock's shoulder blades, gripping his arms again for support.

"Twelve hours," John spits. "Christ, you'd been beaten and broken and it was all still raw and I just—you just let me—?! Jesus, will I ever stop brutalizing you?"

"John, you couldn't have known—"

"That's not the point, Sherlock! God, if I thought this was a pattern before—"

"John, _please,"_ Sherlock whines and the tone yanks John from a flood of self-loathing. "Living through Serbia was dreadful enough; listening to you flog yourself over it three years after the fact is _unbearable."_

John pushes tighter against Sherlock's back and feels the man quiver against him so he gentles his grip at Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, I just … God, say you'll forgive me for what I did to you, even if I didn't know."

Sherlock huffs. "I forgave you the instant it happened, John."

A few tears threaten at the corners of his eyes so John squeezes the lids shut. "Don't ever hide yourself from me again. Promise me."

"John—"

"Promise," John demands. "Nothing about you could ever be worse than knowing you were so ashamed that you didn't think you could tell me. That I did you such a disservice that you didn't even want to try."

He feels Sherlock's back heave as he swallows heavily. "That wasn't a statement on your character, John. It was just … one more item in the heap of things that make me a freak."

John whips his head up and sucks in a lungful of air in a rush. "Don't you say that. Don't you _ever_ utter that word about yourself. Never again in my presence, do you hear me?"

Sherlock doesn't speak so John lets the words tumble out of his mouth.

"Never. You're not a freak, Sherlock; you're a _wonder."_

His voice trails off to a whisper at the end of the sentence and his heart aches in his chest so much that he leans forward and presses his lips to the mottled skin of one of the larger marks on Sherlock's spine. The detective doesn't gasp but rather his whole back shudders beneath John's lips, to the point that John can't tell if it's one breath that stutters throughout or a series of tiny breaths that can't quite all piece together. By the time John pulls his lips away from Sherlock's warm skin to rest his forehead on the detective's back again, Sherlock pants in tiny gulps of air.

 _"_ _John,"_ he whispers and John doesn't think he has ever heard the deep baritone sound quite so shattered.

He's trembling in John's grip so John glances around in a panic, desperate for a distraction. His eyes land on the violin resting nearby on the desk.

"Play for me?" John asks.

"… What?" Sherlock half-turns to glance at him in confusion, his eyes drifting down to where John's fingers still linger on his bare arm.

"Play," John nods at the violin. "Will you play for me?"

"I … yes, of course," Sherlock says quietly, clearly baffled at the abrupt shift. He starts towards the desk to retrieve his instrument but a hand touches his chest and he starts to stoop towards his discarded shirt.

"No," John says and then his cheeks flush when Sherlock blinks up at him in surprise. "I mean, you don't have to hide from me anymore."

Sherlock slowly stands from his half-crouch, leaving the shirt in a pile on the floor, and reaches out once more for the violin. Once the neck of it is in his hands, Sherlock seems to be at a loss, he gazes around for a moment before retrieving the bow and then stands in the center of the room, his hands awkwardly drooping at his sides.

"Did you have any particular requests?" he asks.

"You," John says at once. He moves across the room and settles in his armchair, scouring Sherlock's face as the man stands in front of him. "Play me something of yours. I want to hear you play you."

Sherlock hesitates a moment with a half-raised bow before he brings it to the strings and begins to play. The tune winds around John in the air, beginning with an intense and foreboding sawing at the strings that leads into a bouncing, mercurial melody that seems eminently Sherlock. If John closes his eyes and leans his head back against the chair, the tune speaks to him of midnight chases through the streets of London and laughs at crime scenes. Yes, this is Sherlock, condensed into a single line of music. But not only Sherlock … the line blends into something different, a haunting descant that is at once melancholy and sweet. He gazes up to see Sherlock turned away from him, dragging the bow across the instrument in long, sweeping strokes, coaxing a strain of plaintive wails from the wooden body against his chin; John feels the notes in his bones. And then it's gone again, dancing away under notes that are sensual and lilting then foreboding, then unmistakably anguished … and then it twists and turns again and John finds himself not so much actively listening but letting the music wash over him. Some of it he recognizes – he picks out a phrase of the song Sherlock wrote for the Woman, some of it are lines and strains that he's heard Sherlock composing over the years – but though much of it is new, it feels … familiar. John finds himself just watching Sherlock as he did that night of the gypsy tune; beads of sweat run down the center of his back as he breathes the music in and out, violin and musician moving together. John thinks that this is not so much a song as it is a story without words. He feels the story in bursts of emotions: sorrow, fear, joy, menace, danger that roils in his belly, a hot punch of agonizing sorrow that rattles him to his bones, and then quiet. Sherlock's fingers pulse against the strings but it's barely louder than a whisper. John can't help but think that the growing tension in the melodic line is fear … and hope; a tiny tremulous thing, but unmistakably hope. John realizes he's leaning forward in his chair as if chasing the anticipation in that strain beneath Sherlock's fingers. And then Sherlock stops abruptly, his arms dropping back to his sides.

"What's the matter?" John asks and his voice sounds rough, as if he hasn't used it in days.

"It … isn't finished," Sherlock answers. "A work in progress, in a manner of speaking."

"Does it have a name?"

"A working title, I suppose you would say."

The silence hangs, so John prompts, "What's it called?"

Sherlock fidgets under John's gaze. _"Afghanistan or Iraq."_

Sherlock brings his eyes to meet John's; John feels routed to his chair as the realization sinks in. How John remains upright in his chair as Sherlock's eyes search his face is a complete mystery. The warmth of his body radiating over John's skin makes John realize that he must have stood up and closed the distance between them at some point but he honestly has no recollection of doing it.

"It's about me?" he croaks out. It feels as if a snooker ball lodged itself in his throat.

"Us, John," Sherlock says.

John can feel the puff of breath on his face. When did they get so close?

"It's about _us,"_ the detective finishes in a hush.

John slams his eyes shut and frantically tries to gather his scattering thoughts. Except now, in the wake of this evening and this song, all of his thoughts coalesce into one solid, unshakeable revelation: Sherlock loves him back. Without hesitation, without a doubt, John knows this fact as if it is the only thing that he has ever known. A sudden crushing weight settles onto John's chest and he's gasping on nearly every breath. He's rocking forward towards Sherlock helplessly as he feels and hears and smells the inescapable presence of the man, overwhelming every sense and knocking the whole planet off its axis. A light brush of Sherlock's fingers on either side of John's jaw has him snapping his eyes open, gazing up into Sherlock's shifting, liquid eyes and they're here, dancing on the precipice of the moment he'd thought would never come.

"John," Sherlock says close to his face. The word is his whole universe for a moment.

And then it crashes over him and it's too much. _God, it's too much. She was right. She was right about_ _ **everything.**_

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Sherlock's face pinches and he asks, "Who? Right about what?"

"Mary," John breathes. His hands shake and his vision starts to go wavy at the corners. That video is the only thing in his head right now, playing behind his eyes, telling him that Sherlock is in love with him in his dead wife's voice. "Oh, God, she was right. _Mary."_

He's not making sense and something behind Sherlock's eyes splinters.

"I have to … I need a minute," John gabbles and can't stop himself from dashing out of the room, up the stairs and behind his bedroom door where it all feels so much less earth-shattering. He braces his back against the door, slides to the ground, and tries to just focus on breathing until he can stop feeling like he's going to shatter into pieces.

His brain seems determined to tear itself to bits. It's not just the eerily prescient prediction from a shadow of his dead wife; this thing between him and Sherlock could be the making of his entire life at last or it could destroy everything they've cobbled together. His friends, the family they've made between them, the so-called 'job' he shares with Sherlock, one he loves that gives him danger and fulfillment and respect. Oh, God, _respect._ What if this changes everything? What will all those people think? What will the people at the Yard do? Will it be James all over again, except worse this time, because John's actually done the thing he's accused of? He keeps running over all the things that could happen, all the ways they could explode, fracture each other, and tear it all down. Lose each other.

It takes John twenty-seven minutes to stop hyperventilating and stumble back down the stairs where he finds a discarded violin, a missing coat, and an empty flat.

* * *

Sherlock clenches his eyes tight against the vision of John's fleeing back. They'd been so close; he'd thought it had been so obvious; he'd thought there was no doubt, no room for misinterpretation …. And then John had said it. _Mary._ Sherlock dry heaves once, fighting to keep a sob in when he hears John's door slam. He strides to his room, pries loose the backing of the bookshelf behind the picture of Niehls Bohr, and feels his fingers close around a too-familiar box. The syringe and bag of powder are in his hand before he can think about it but then he stops. Hesitates. Digs frantically in his pocket for his mobile. It only rings once and he starts speaking the instant he hears the click.

"Mycroft, you were right—"

"Phone calls twice in one week, Sherlock? You must be _very_ bored. Or otherwise—"

"You were right," he blurts again. "About everything."

"You're _admitting_ I was right about something?"

"I never should have gone to Dursley."

A swift, loaded pause and then the unmistakable click of his brother's shoes on the entrance way tiles. "Is there a list?"

"I'm already making one in my head, Mycroft." He fingers the syringe. "It's very long."

The clicks turn into a run. "Are you at home? I can be at Baker Street in eight minutes."

His fingers compress around the bag of powder. "I'm at home … but I don't need to leave the house to start on the list."

A car door slam, low murmuring. "Six minutes."

"Mycroft—"

"Just don't anything for six minutes. Please, little brother."

He opens his palm to drop the baggie to the floor, clutches the phone instead, focuses on breathing. "Hurry."

* * *

A/N - You guys. YOU GUYS. THAT ENDING KILLED ME. The only thing that made me get through it is knowing that **From the Mouth of Babes** is out there already and you can _immediately_ go read the story of them getting together and have fluffy happiness. And you totally should. Not just because you probably need some fluff right about now but because I'm already writing the next installment, which will be a DIRECT follow-up to FTMOB so you might want to refresh your memory before that happens.

Also, just as a teaser, the installment after FTMOB is going to be at least 90% smut. I'm serious. Feels and smut and feelsy smut and more feels and more smut. Because reasons. So thanks for reading and please stay tuned. Subscribe to me as an author or the series as a whole to stay updated. ^_^


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